Dorian Part 18

'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 G.o.d 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 G.o.d 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. G.o.d'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 m.u.f.fled 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.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

It is no doubt a wise provision of nature that the cold of winter closes the activity in field and garden, thus allowing time for study by the home fire. Dorian Trent's library, having been greatly enlarged, now became to him a source of much pleasure and profit. Books which he never dreamed of possessing were now on his shelves. In some people's opinion, he was too well satisfied to remain in his cosy room and bury himself in his books; but his mother found no fault. She was always welcome to come and go; and in fact, much of the time he sat with her by the kitchen fire, reading aloud and discussing with her the contents of his book.

Dorian found, as Uncle Zed had, wonderful arguments for the truth of the gospel in Orson and Parley P. Pratt's works. In looking through the "Journal of Discourses," he found markings by many of the sermons, especially by those of Brigham Young. Dorian always read the pa.s.sages thus indicated, for he liked to realize that he was following the former owner of the book even in his thinking. The early volumes of the "Millennial Star" contained some interesting reading. Very likely, the doctrinal articles of these first elders were no better than those of more recent writers, but their plain bluntness and their very age seemed to give them charm.

By his reading that winter Dorian obtained an enlarged view of his religion. It gave him vision to see and to comprehend better the whole and thus to more fully understand the details. Besides, he was laying a broad and firm foundation for his faith in G.o.d and the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, a faith which would stand him well in need when he came to delve into a faithless and a G.o.dless science.

Not that Dorian became a hermit. He took an active part in the Greenstreet ward organizations. He was secretary of the Mutual, always attended Sunday School, and usually went to the ward dances. As he became older he overcame some of his shyness with girls; and as prosperity came to him, he could dress better and have his ma.s.s of rusty-red hair more frequently trimmed by the city barber. More than one of the discerning Greenstreet girls laid their caps for the big, handsome young fellow.

And Dorian's thoughts, we must know, were not all the time occupied with the philosophy of Orson Pratt. He was a very natural young man, and there were some very charming girls in Greenstreet. When, arrayed in their Sunday best, they sat in the ward choir, he, not being a member of the choir, could look at them to his heart's content, first at one and then at another along the double row. Carlia Duke usually sat on the front row where he could see her clearly and compare her with the others--and she did not suffer by the comparison.

Dorian now begin to realize that it was selfish, if not foolish, to think always of the dead Mildred to the exclusion of the very much alive Carlia. Mildred was safe in the world of spirits, where he would some day meet her again; but until that time, he had this life to live and those about him to think of. Carlia was a dear girl, beautiful, too, now in her maturing womanhood. None of the other girls touched his heart as Carlia. He had taken a number of them to dances, but he had always come back, in his thought, at least, to Carlia. But her actions lately had been much of a puzzle. Sometimes she seemed to welcome him eagerly when he called, at other times she tried to evade him. No doubt this Mr. Jack Lamont was the disturbing element. That winter he could be seen coming quite openly to the Duke home, and when the weather would permit, Carlia would be riding with him in his automobile. The neighbors talked, but the father could only shake his head and explain that Carlia was a willful girl.

Now when it seemed that Carlia was to be won by this very gallant stranger, Dorian began to realize what a loss she would be to him. He was sure he loved the girl, but what did that avail if she did not love him in return. He held to the opinion that such attractions should be mutual. He could see no sense in the old-time custom of the knight winning his lady love by force of arms or by the fleetness of horse's legs.

However, Dorian was not easy in his mind, and it came to the point when he suffered severe heartaches when he knew of Carlia's being with the stranger. The Christmas holidays that season were nearly spoiled for him. He had asked Carlia a number of times to go to the parties with him, but she had offered some excuse each time.

"Let her alone," someone had told him.

"No; do not let her alone," his mother had counseled; and he took his mother's advice.

Carlia had been absent from the Sunday meetings for a number of weeks, so when she appeared in her place in the choir on a Sunday late in January, Dorian noticed the unusual pallor of her face. He wondered if she had been ill. He resolved to make another effort, for in fact, his heart went out to her. At the close of the meeting he found his way to her side as she was walking home with her father and mother. Dorian never went through the formality of asking Carlia if he might accompany her home. He had always taken it for granted that he was welcome; and, at any rate, a man could always tell by the girl's actions whether or not he was wanted.

"I haven't seen you for a long time," began Dorian by way of greeting.

The girl did not reply.

"Been sick?" he asked.

"Yes--no, I'm all right."

The parents walked on ahead, leaving the two young people to follow.

Evidently, Carlia was very much out of sorts, but the young man tried again.

"What's the matter, Carlia?"

"Nothing."

"Well, I hope I'm not annoying you by my company."

No answer. They walked on in silence, Carlia looking straight ahead, not so much at her parents, as at the distant snow-clad mountains. Dorian felt like turning about and going home, but he could not do that very well, so he went on to the gate, where he would have said goodnight had not Mrs. Duke urged him to come in. The father and mother went to bed early, leaving the two young people by the dining-room fire.

They managed to talk for some time on "wind and weather". Despite the paleness of cheek, Carlia was looking her best. Dorian was jealous.

"Carlia," he said, "why do you keep company with this Mr. Lamont?"

She was standing near the book-shelf with its meagre collection. She turned abruptly at his question.

"Why shouldn't I go with him?" she asked.

"You know why you shouldn't."

"I don't. Oh, I know the reasons usually given, but--what am I to do.

He's so nice, and a perfect gentleman. What harm is there?"

"Why do you say that to me, Carlia?"

"Why not to you?" She came and sat opposite him by the table. He was silent, and she repeated her question, slowly, carefully, and with emphasis. "Why not to you? Why should you care?"

"But I do care."

"I don't believe it. You have never shown that you do."

"I am showing it now."

"Tomorrow you will forget it--forget me for a month."

"Carlia!"

"You've done it before--many times--you'll do it again."

The girl's eyes flashed. She seemed keyed up to carry through something she had planned to do, something hard. She arose and stood by the table, facing him.