"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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d which did not help me very much." He picked up one of the slips of paper and read: ""G.o.d 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 G.o.d....
My G.o.d 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 pa.s.s the pickles," responded Mrs. Trent.
When the merriment had ceased, uncle Zed continued: "There is some truth in these definitions. G.o.d is all that which they try to express, and vastly more. The trouble is these men talk about the attributes of G.o.d, 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 G.o.d. 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 G.o.d."
"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 s.p.a.ce, 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 s.p.a.ce or intelligence. Time always has been, there can be no end to s.p.a.ce, and intelligence cannot create itself. Now, with limitless time and s.p.a.ce 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 G.o.ds. Therefore, there must be a G.o.d, yes, many G.o.ds living and reigning throughout the limitless regions of glorified s.p.a.ce.
"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 s.p.a.ce in the which there is no kingdom; and there is no kingdom in which there is no s.p.a.ce, 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 G.o.ds began to be?
"Or see the grand beginning Where s.p.a.ce did not extend?
Or view the last creation, Where G.o.ds and matter end?
"Methinks the Spirit whispers: No man has found "pure s.p.a.ce,"
Nor seen the outside curtains, Where nothing has a place.
"The works of G.o.d continue, And worlds and lives abound; Improvement and progression Have one eternal round.
"There is no end to matter, There is no end to s.p.a.ce, 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 G.o.d. 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 ca.n.a.l 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 sc.r.a.ping 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.
"h.e.l.lo, 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."