Dorian was twenty-one years old, and his mother had planned a little
party in honor of the event. The invited guests were Uncle Zed, Bishop
Johnson and wife, the teacher of the district school, and Carlia Duke.
These arrived during the dusk of the evening, all but Carlia. They
lingered on the cool lawn under the colored glow of the Chinese
lanterns.
Mrs. Trent realized that it would be useless to make the party a
surprise, for she had to have Dorian's help in hanging out the lanterns,
and he would necessarily see the unusual activity in front room and
kitchen. Moreover, Dorian, unlike Uncle Zed, had not lost track of his
birthdays, and especially this one which would make him a full-fledged
citizen of these United States.
The little party chatted on general topics for some time until Mrs.
Trent, in big white apron, announced that supper was ready, and would
they all come right in. Mrs. Trent always served her refreshments at the
regular supper time and not near midnight, for she claimed that people
of regular habits, which her guests were, are much better off by not
having those habits broken into.
"Are we all here?" she asked, scanning them as they passed in. "All but
Carlia," she announced. "Where's Carlia?"
No one knew. Someone proffered the explanation that she was usually late
as she had so many chores to do, at which the Bishop's wife shook her
head knowingly, but said nothing.
"Well, she'll be along presently," said Mrs. Trent. "Sit down all of
you. Bishop, will you ask the blessing?"
The hostess, waitress, and cook all combined in the capable person of
Mrs. Trent, sat at the table with her party. Everything which was to be
served was on the table in plain sight, so that all could nicely guage
their eating to various dishes. When all were well served and the eating
was well under way, Mrs. Trent said:
"Brothers and sisters, this is Dorian's birthday party. He has been a
mighty good boy, and so--"
"Mother," interrupted the young man.
"Now, you never mind--you be still. Dorian is a good boy, and I want all
of you to know it."
"We all do, Sister Trent," said the Bishop; "and it is a good thing to
sometimes tell a person of his worthiness to his face."
"But if we say more, he'll be uncomfortable," remarked the mother, "so
we had better change the subject. The crops are growing, the weather is
fine, and the neighbors are all right. That disposes of the chief
topics of conversation, and will give Uncle Zed a chance. He always has
something worth listening to, if not up his sleeve, then in his white
old head. But do not hurry, Uncle Zed; get through with your supper."
The old man was a light eater, so he finished before the others. He
looked smilingly about him, noting that those present were eager to
listen. He took from his pocket a number of slips of paper and placed
them on the table beside his plate. Then he began to talk, the others
leisurely finishing their dessert.
"The other evening," he said, "Dorian and I had a conversation which
interested us very much, and I think it would interest all of us here.
I was telling him my experience in my search for God and the plan of
salvation, and I promised him I would read to him some of the things I
found. Here is a definition of God which did not help me very much." He
picked up one of the slips of paper and read: "'God is the integrated
harmony of all potentialities of good in every actual and possible
rational agent.' What do you think of that?"
The listeners knitted their brows, but no one spoke. Uncle Zed
continued: "Well, here is a little more. Perhaps this will clear it up:
'The greatest of selves, the ultimate Self of the universe, is God....
My God is my deeper self and yours too. He is the self of the universe,
and knows all about it.... By Deity we mean the all-controling
consciousness of the universe, as well as the unfathomable, all
unknowable, and unknowable abyss of being beyond'."
Uncle Zed carefully folded his papers and placed them back in his
pocket. He looked about him, but his friends appeared as if they had had
a volley of Greek fired at them. "Well" he said, "why don't some of you
say something?"
"Please pass the pickles," responded Mrs. Trent.
When the merriment had ceased, uncle Zed continued: "There is some truth
in these definitions. God is all that which they try to express, and
vastly more. The trouble is these men talk about the attributes of God,
and confound these with the being and personality of the Great Parent.
I may describe the scent of the rose, but that does not define the rose
itself. I cannot separate the rose from its color or form or odor, any
more than I can divorce music from the instrument. These vague and
incomplete definitions have had much to do with the unbelief in the
world. Tom Paine wrote a book which he called the 'Age of Reason' on the
premise that reason does away with God. Isn't that it, Dorian?"
"All agnostic writers seem to think that there is no reason in religion,
and at times they come pretty near proving it too," replied Dorian.
"That is because they base their arguments on the religions of the
world; but the restored gospel of Jesus Christ rests largely on reason.
Why, I can prove, contrary to the generally accepted opinion, by reason
alone that there must be a God."
"We shall be glad to hear it," said the school teacher. The eating was
about over, and so they all sat and listened attentively.
"We do not need to quote a word of scripture," continued Uncle Zed. "All
we need to know is a little of the world about us, a little of the race
and its history, and a little of the other worlds out in space, all of
which is open to anybody who will seek it. The rest is simply a little
connected thought. Reason tells me that there can be no limits to time
or space or intelligence. Time always has been, there can be no end to
space, and intelligence cannot create itself. Now, with limitless time
and space and intelligence to work with, what have we? The human mind,
being limited, cannot grasp the limitless; therefore, we must make
arbitrary points of beginning and ending. Now, let us project our
thought as far back into duration as we can--count the periods by any
thinkable measurements, years, centuries, ages, aeons, anything you
please that will help. Have we arrived at a point when there is no
world, no life, no intelligence? Certainly not. Somewhere in space, all
that we see here and now will be seen to exist. Go back from this point
to a previous period, and then count back as far as you wish; there is
yet time and space and intelligence.
"There is an eternal law of progress which holds good always and
everywhere. It has been operating all through the ages of the past. Now,
let us take one of these Intelligences away back in the far distance
past and place him in the path of progress so that the eternal law of
growth and advancement will operate on him. I care not whether you apply
the result to Intelligences as individuals or as the race. Given time
enough, this endless and eternal advancement must result in a state of
perfection that those who attain to it may with truth and propriety be
called Gods. Therefore, there must be a God, yes, many Gods living and
reigning throughout the limitless regions of glorified space.
"Here is corroborative evidence: I read in the Doctrine and Covenants,
Section 88: 'All kingdoms have a law given; and there are many kingdoms;
for there is no space in the which there is no kingdom; and there is
no kingdom in which there is no space, either a greater or a lesser
kingdom. And unto every kingdom is given a law; and unto every law there
are certain bounds also and conditions.'
"There is a hymn in our hymn book in which W.W. Phelps expresses this
idea beautifully. Let me read it:
'If you could hie to Kolob,
In the twinkling of an eye,
And then continue onward,
With that same speed to fly.
'Do you think that you could ever,
Through all eternity,
Find out the generation
Where Gods began to be?
'Or see the grand beginning
Where space did not extend?
Or view the last creation,
Where Gods and matter end?
'Methinks the Spirit whispers:
No man has found "pure space,"
Nor seen the outside curtains,
Where nothing has a place.
'The works of God continue,
And worlds and lives abound;
Improvement and progression
Have one eternal round.
'There is no end to matter,
There is no end to space,
There is no end to spirit,
There is no end to race.
'There is no end to virtue,
There is no end to might,
There is no end to wisdom,
There is no end to light.
'There is no end to union,
There is no end to youth,
There is no end to priesthood,
There is no end to truth.
'There is no end to glory,
There is no end to love,
There is no end to being,
Grim death reigns not above.'
"The Latter-day Saints have been adversely criticized for holding out
such astounding hopes for the future of the human race; but let
us reason a little more, beginning nearer home. What has the race
accomplished, even within the short span of our own recollection? Man is
fast conquering the forces of nature about him, and making these forces
to serve him. Now, we must remember that duration extends ahead of us in
the same limitless way in which it reaches back. Give, then, the race
today all the time necessary, what cannot it accomplish? Apply it again
either to an individual or to the race, in time, some would attain to
what we conceive of as perfection, and the term by which such beings are
known to us is God. I can see no other logical conclusion."
The chairs were now pushed back, and Mrs. Trent threw a cloth over the
table just as it stood, explaining that she would not take the time from
her company to devote to the dishes. She invited them into Dorian's
little room, much to that young man's uneasiness.
His mother had tidied the room, so it was presentable. His picture,
"Sunset in Marshland" had been lowered a little on the wall, and
directly over it hung a photograph of Mildred Brown. To Dorian's
questioning look, Mrs. Trent explained, that Mrs. Brown had sent it just
the other day. Dorian looked closely at the beautiful picture, and a
strange feeling came over him. Had Mildred gone on in this eternal
course of progress of which Uncle Zed had been speaking? Was she still
away ahead of him? Would he ever reach her?
On his study table were a number of books, birthday presents. One was
from Uncle Zed's precious store, and one--What? He picked it up--"David
Copperfield." He opened the beautiful volume and read on the fly leaf:
"From Carlia, to make up a little for your loss." He remembered now that
Carlia, some time before, had asked him what books were in the package
which had gone down the canal at the time when he had pulled her out of
the water. Carlia had not forgotten; and she was not here; the supper
was over, and it was getting late. Why had she not come?
The party broke up early, as it was a busy season with them all. Dorian
walked home with Uncle Zed, then he had a mind to run over to Carlia's.
He could not forget about her absence nor about the present she had
sent. He had never read the story, and he would like to read it to
Carlia. She had very little time, he realized, which was all the more
reason for his making time to read it to her.
As every country boy will, at every opportunity, so Dorian cut crosslots
to his objective. He now leaped the fence, and struck off through the
meadow up into the corn field. Mr. Duke had a big, fine field that
season, the growing corn already reaching to his shoulder. The night was
dark, save for the twinkling stars in the clear sky; it was still, save
for the soft rustling of the corn in the breeze.
Dorian caught sight of a light as of a lantern up by the ditch from
which the water for irrigating was turned into the rows of corn and
potatoes. He stopped and listened. A tool grated in the gravelly soil.
Mr. Duke was no doubt using his night turn at the water on his corn
instead of turning it on the hay-land as was the custom. He would
inquire of him about Carlia.
As he approached the light, the scraping ceased, and he saw a dark
figure dart into the shelter of the tall corn. When he reached the
lantern, he found a hoe lying in the furrow where the water should have
been running. No man irrigates with a hoe; that's a woman's tool. Ah,
the secret was out! Carlia was 'tending' the water. That's why she was
not at the party.
He stood looking down into the shadows of the corn rows, but for the
moment he could see or hear nothing. He had frightened her, and yet
Carlia was not usually afraid. He began to whistle softly and to walk
down into the corn. Then he called, not loudly, "Carlia".
There was no response. He quickened his steps. The figure ran to another
shelter. He could see her now, and he called again, louder than before.
She stopped, and then darted through the corn into the more open potatoe
patch. Dorian followed.
"Hello, Carlia," he said, "what are you doing?"
The girl stood before him, bareheaded, with rough dress and heavy boots.
She was panting as if with fright. When she caught a full sight of
Dorian she gave a little cry, and when he came within reach, she grasped
him by the arm.
"Oh, is it you, Dorian?"
"Sure. Who else did you think it was? Why, you're all of a tremble. What
are you afraid of?"
"I--I thought it was--was someone else. Oh, Dorian, I'm so glad it is
you!"
She stood close to him as if wishing to claim his protection. He
instinctively placed his arm about her shoulders. "Why, you silly girl,
the dark won't hurt you."
"I'm not afraid of the dark. I'm afraid of--Oh, Dorian, don't let him
hurt me!" There was a sob in her voice.
"What are you talking about? I believe you're not well. Are your feet
wet? Have you a fever?" He put his hand on her forehead, brushing back
the dark, towsled hair. He took her plump, work-roughened hand in his
bigger and equally rough one. "And this is why you were not to my
party," he said.
"Yes; I hated to miss it, but father's rheumatism was so bad that he
could not come out. So it was up to me. We haven't any too much water
this summer. I'd better turn the water down another row; it's flooding
the corn."
They went to the lantern on the ditch bank. Dorian picked up the hoe and
made the proper adjustment of the water flow. "How long will it take for
the water to reach the bottom of the row?" he asked.
"About fifteen minutes."
"And how many rows remain?"
Carlia counted. "Twelve," she said.
"All right. This is a small stream and will only allow for three rows at
a time. Three into twelve is four, and four times fifteen is sixty. It
is now half past ten. We'll get through by twelve o'clock easy."
"You'd better go home. I'm all right now. I'm not afraid."
"I said we will get home. Sit down here on the bank. Are you cold?"
He took off his coat and placed it about her shoulders. She made no
objections, though in truth she was not cold.
"Tell me about the party," she said.
He told her who were there, and how they had missed her.
"And did Uncle Zed preach?"
"Preach? O, yes, he talked mighty fine. I wish I could tell you what he
said."
"What was it about?"
"About God," he answered reverently.
"Try to tell me, Dorian. I need to know. I'm such a dunce."
Dorian repeated in his way Uncle Zed's argument, and he succeeded fairly
well in his presentation of the subject. The still night under the
shining stars added an impressive setting to the telling, and the girl
close by his side drank in hungrily every word. When the water reached
the end of the rows, it was turned into others, until all were
irrigated. When that was accomplished, Dorian's watch showed half past
eleven. He picked up the lantern and the hoe, and they walked back to
the house.
"The party was quite complete, after all," he said at the door. "I've
enjoyed this little after-affair as much as I did the party."
"I'm glad," she whispered.
"And it was wonderfully good of you to give me that present."
"I'm glad," she repeated.
"Do you know what I was thinking about when I opened the book and saw it
was from you?"
"No; what?"
"Why, I thought, we'll read this book together, you and I."
"Wouldn't that be fine!"
"We can't do that now, of course; but after a while when we get more
time. I'll not read it until then.... Well, you're tired. Go to bed.
Good night, Carlia."
"Goodnight, Dorian, and thank you for helping me."
They stood close together, she on the step above him. The lamp, placed
on the kitchen table for her use, threw its light against the glass door
which formed a background for the girl's roughened hair, soiled and
sweat-stained face, and red, smiling lips.
"Goodnight," he said again; and then he leaned forward and kissed her.