"Well, a farmer doesn"t usually amount to much, I mean in the eyes of the world. Farmers seem to be in a different cla.s.s from merchants, for example, or from bankers or other more genteel workers."
"Listen to me, Dorian Trent." Uncle Zed laid down his book as if he had a serious task before him. "Let me tell you something. If you haven"t done so before, begin now and thank the Lord that you began life on this globe of ours as a farmer"s child and boy. Whatever you do or become in the future, you have made a good beginning. You have already laid away in the way of concepts, we may say, a generous store of nature"s riches, for you have been in close touch with the earth, and the life which teems in soil and air and the waters. Pity the man whose childish eyes looked out on nothing but paved streets and brick walls or whose young ears heard nothing but the harsh rumble of the city, for his early conceptions from which to interpret his later life is artificial and therefore largely untrue."
Uncle Zed smiled up into the boy"s face as if to ask, Do you get that?
Dorian would have to have time to a.s.similate the idea; meanwhile, he had another question:
"Uncle Zed, why are there cla.s.ses among members of our Church?"
"Cla.s.ses? What do you mean?"
"Well, the rich do not a.s.sociate with the poor nor the learned with the unlearned. I know, of course, that this is the general rule in the world, but I think it should be different in the Church."
"Yes; it ought to be and is different. There are no cla.s.ses such as you have in mind in the Church, even though a few unthinking members seem to imply it by their actions; but there is no real cla.s.s distinction in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, only such that are based on the doing of the right and the wrong. Character alone is the standard of cla.s.sification."
"Yes, I see that that should be true."
"It is true. Let me ill.u.s.trate: The presiding authority in the Church is not handed down from father to son, thus fostering an aristocratic tendency; also this authority is so wide-spread that anything like a "ruling family" would be impossible. In a town where I once lived, the owner of the bank and the town blacksmith were called on missions. They both were a.s.signed to the same field, and the blacksmith was appointed to preside over the banker. The banker submitted willingly to be directed in his missionary labors by one who, judged by worldly standards, was far beneath him in the social scale. I know a shoemaker in the city who is a teacher in the theological cla.s.s of his ward, whose membership consists of merchants, lawyers, doctors, and the like.
Although he is poor and earns his living by mending shoes, he is greatly respected for his goodness and his knowledge of Scriptural subjects and doctrine."
"So you think--that a young fellow might--that it would not be wrong--or foolish for a poor man to think a lot of--of a rich girl, for instance."
Uncle Zed peered at Dorian over his gla.s.ses. The old man took him gently by the shoulders. Ah, that"s what"s back of all this, he thought; but what he said was:
"My boy, Emerson said, "Hitch your wagon to a star," and I will add, never let go, although the rocks in the road may b.u.mp you badly. Why, there"s nothing impossible for a young man like you. You may be rich, if you want to; I expect to see you learned; and the Priesthood which you have is your a.s.surance, through your diligence and faithfulness, to any heights. Yes, my boy; go ahead--love Mildred Brown all you want to; she"s fine, but not a bit finer than you."
"Oh, Uncle Zed," Dorian somewhat protested; but, nevertheless, he went home that evening with his heart singing.
CHAPTER SIX.
Some days later word came to Mrs. Trent that Mildred was very ill. "Call on them after school," she said to Dorian, "to see just how she is, and ask Mrs. Brown if I can do anything for her."
Dorian did as he was directed. He went around to the back door for fear he might disturb the sick girl. Mrs. Brown herself, seeing him coming, met him and let him in.
Yes, Mildred was very ill. Mrs. Brown was plainly worried. Could he or his mother do anything to help? No; only to lend their faith and prayers. Would he come into the sick room to see her for a few minutes?
Yes, if she desired it.
Dorian followed the mother into the sick room. Mildred lay well propped up by pillows in a bed white as snow. She was thinner and paler than ever, eyes bigger, hair heavier and more golden. When she saw Dorian, she smiled and reached out her hand, letting it lie in the big strong one.
"How are you?" she said, very low.
"Well and fine, and how are you?"
She simply shook her head gently and closed her eyes, seeming content to touch the strong young manhood beside her. The mother went quietly from the room, and all became quite still. Speech was difficult for the sick girl, and equally hard for the young man. But he looked freely at the angel-like face on the pillow without rebuke from the closed eyes. He glanced about the room, beautifully clean and airy. All her books and her working material had been carried away as if she were through with them for good. In a corner on an easel stood an unfinished copy of "Sunset in Marshland." Dorian"s eyes rested for a moment on the picture, and as he again looked at the girl, he saw a smile pa.s.s over the marble-like face.
That was all. Presently, he left the room, and without many words, the house.
Each day after that Dorian managed to learn of the girl"s condition, though he did not go into the sick chamber. On the sixth day word came to Dorian at school that Mildred was dying. He looked about for Carlia to tell her, but she was nowhere to be found. Dorian could not go home.
Mildred was dying! The one girl--yes, the only one in all the world who had looked at him with her heart in the look, was leaving the world, and him. Why could she not live, if only for his sake? He sat in the school room until all had gone, and he was alone with the janitor. His open book was still before him, but he saw not the printed page. Then the short winter day closed. Dusk came on. The janitor had finished sweeping the room and was ready to leave. Dorian gathered up his books, put on his overcoat, and went out. Mildred was dying! Perhaps she was about to begin that great journey into the unknown. Would she be afraid? Would she not need a strong hand to help her? "Mildred," he whispered.
He walked on slowly up the street toward the Brown"s. Darkness came on. The light gleamed softly through the closed blinds of the house.
Everything was very still. He did not try to be admitted, but paced back and forth on the other side of the street. Back and forth he went for a long time, it seemed. Then the front door opened, and the doctor pa.s.sed out. Mildred must either be better or beyond all help. He wanted to ask the doctor, but he could not bring himself to intercept him. The house remained quiet. Some of the lights were extinguished. Dorian crossed the street. He must find out something. He stood by the gate, not knowing what to do. The door opened again, and a woman, evidently a neighbor, came out. She saw the young man and stopped.
"Pardon me," said Dorian, "but tell me how Mildred--Miss Brown is?"
"She just died."
"Thank you."
The woman went into a nearby house. Dorian moved away, benumbed with the despair which sank into his heart at the final setting of his sun. Dead!
Mildred was dead! He felt the night wind blow cold down the street, and he saw the storm clouds scudding along the distant sky. In the deep blue directly above him a star shone brightly, but it only reminded him of what Uncle Zed had said about hitching to a star; yes, but what if the star had suddenly been taken from the sky!
A form of a girl darted across the street toward him. He stopped and saw that it was Carlia.
"Dorian" she cried, "how is she?"
"She has just died."
"Dead! O, dear," she wailed.
They stood there under the street light, the girl looking with great pity into the face of the young man. She was only a girl, and not a very wise girl, but she saw how he suffered, and her heart went out to his heart. She took his hand and held it firmly within her warmer grasp; and by that simple thing the young man seemed again to get within the reach of human sympathy. Then they walked on without speaking, and she led him along the streets and on to the road which led to Greenstreet.
"Come on, Dorian, let"s go home," she said.
"Yes; let"s go home, Carlia."
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 G.o.d 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 ca.n.a.l, 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 Sat.u.r.day afternoon as he went home, placed them in a gla.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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.