John Stevens' Courtship

"Corporal Rose," he said, somewhat sharply, "we shall take no rest for dinner, but press on at once for Provo."

And Corporal Rose, albeit full of wonder as to the sharpness and the haste, was very glad to ride straight on to Provo.

XIX

TOM ALLEN DREAMS A DREAM

Most of the Saints had halted in Provo; here on the banks of that brawling river, called by the Indians, in soft labials, Timpanogos, had grown up a large temporary metropolis; and that half-tented, half-domiciled host, whose human hearts beat with hopes and fears, and whose tongues and thoughts were still very human, in spite of the past, the discomfort of the present, and the grave uncertainty of the future, carried on life's daily details with fitful regularity. Thirty thousand people were encamped in the beautiful Utah Valley, around the borders of Utah Lake.

The swimmer, across the Grecian gulf was far more interested in the exact measure of his stroke than in the record he would make in future history. So, too, on the banks of the Timpanogos, men were more interested in the withering crops in the Salt Lake Valley than they were in the secession of the South or in the possible outcome of their own difficulties. So there sat in Provo, in a small, dingy back room, two girls, just now vitally interested in making a huge pot of cornmeal mush for the supper of two or three associated families. The unwieldy vessel swung from the crane over the huge fire-place. The strenuous excitement of the Move had gradually subsided, leaving the young people at least once more gaily afloat on the seas of their own impulses, their own fears and their own loves.

"Don't stop stirring that cornmeal, Dian, until it is thoroughly cooked," said Rachel Winthrop, as she entered the hut. "You know that your brother hates raw mush; and it is a science to know how to cook it. When it has boiled a good half hour, I will come in and stir in the flour to thicken it."

The girl bent over the fire-place and stirred the bubbling mass in the pot, while her pink cheeks turned to rosy red.

"Oh, Ellie, what a nuisance a fireplace is, anyhow. I didn't half appreciate our good step-stove until I came here and had to work on this."

"Never mind, Dian, I shall have these batter cakes in the skillet baked in a minute, and then I will stir it for a while."

"Standing over a fire like this makes my cheeks just like ugly old purple hollyhocks. It's all I can do to get along with my homely red cheeks under ordinary circumstances, but when I get over a fire it simply makes me hideous."

"Oh, no such thing; why do you care, anyway, Dian, there's no one here to see you?"

"Don't need to be! I am conscious of it and that is enough."

"Say, Dian, do you miss John Stevens? I am just homesick to see him. We have scarcely laid eyes on him this winter or spring."

"No, I can't say that I care. John is good enough, but he is so quiet; I believe he is too tame to really amount to much."

"Tame! John Stevens tame! Well, Dian, I gave you credit for more discernment than that. Why, I don't believe that there is a braver or more passionate man living than John Stevens."

"Oh, I don't say but what he has temper enough; the flash in his eyes tells that; but I mean he is tame around women. He pokes around as if he didn't care whether you were alive or dead. I like some one with eyes and ears. Some one who has a grain of gallantry in him. Not such a stick as John Stevens."

"Why don't you set your cap for Tom Allen? He has eyes and ears for nothing else than women."

"And his dinner! Tom Allen! Oh, my! He has no more romance in him than a dinner plate. Just think of it!"

And the girl laughed and laughed that silvery, teasing, rippling laughter, till her mush sputtered and boiled over with indignation, into the glowing coals of the fire-place.

"Well, you may laugh, but I really think that Tom Allen is as nice as he can be. He may be funny and droll, but he has a great big heart in him, and if he wasn't engaged to Luna Hyde I would set my cap for him myself."

"Oh, Ellie, Ellie; you could flirt with anybody, and could, I verily believe, love anybody that gave you good reason not to, but my heart is of less impressionable material. It isn't so gentle and lovable as your dear little one."

Evidently Ellie wanted to turn the talk away from herself, so she offered to stir the mush, while Diantha watched the cakes. The conversation drifted to their immediate surroundings.

Several families had decided to put their fortunes together during the Move period, and the Winthrops, Tylers, and a family of Prescotts, who had several little children, and Tom Allen and his mother were all living crowded together in one or two little log houses on the Provo River's banks. Ellen's mind was dwelling just now on jolly Tom Allen, who spent no time at work or play which was not well interspersed with fun; fun which was innocent in itself, but which sometimes led to injured feelings.

"Come, girls," said Rachel Winthrop, entering the kitchen, "I know you must be ready and the folks are gathering in for supper. Here, Dian, stir in this flour slowly and carefully, and I will be ready to take it up in just one minute."

The united families were soon gathered at one long table, each person impatient for his frugal meal, and each filled with the primal thoughts and impulses common to all humanity. Had any one of them been conscious of the real pathos of their situation, the scene might have melted such an one to tears. Driven from comfortable, hard-earned homes, through fear of armed violence, these four or five families – like thousands of their friends – unable even to get a home to shelter them from the winds and storms of the late spring weather, were all huddled together in these three small log rooms. They were compelled to make beds on the floors for the children and to use their wagon-boxes for their own sleeping compartments; and the utmost precaution was necessary to maintain order and decency in their crowded condition. The good people of Provo were taxed to the extreme to give shelter and comfort to the fleeing thousands who had suddenly called upon their hospitality. Tents, boweries, shanties, and rude structures of all kinds were pressed into service. And the people who could secure shelter of any sort were deemed fortunate. The work pressed hardest upon the women. Compelled to carry on the common vocations of life under such circumstances, the weekly washings, ironings, cleanings, and cookings taxed even the most patient and strong to the uttermost. Our friends were lucky in having Aunt Clara Tyler included in their number, for she went about in her quiet way, healing wounds made by thoughtless tongues, and holding back the quick anger which pressed so hard upon irritated nerves and worn-out bodies. There was a saying, when Aunt Clara invited someone to take a walk along the river bank with her, "There goes Aunt Clara – not to cleanse the cups, but to mend some broken heart."

Aunt Clara and her friends were not the only ones who took walks by the river banks. It came to be a common thing for Tom Allen and Ellen Tyler to stroll up and down its winding paths, talking sometimes seriously and sometimes in that quizzical way so common to Tom. Sweet little hungry heart! Ellen was a loving soul, whose worst fault was a selfish weakness, a trait often admired in a sheltered woman, but dangerous in one thrown upon her own strength. She must, however, learn her lessons, as we must learn ours.

One day in the late spring, Ellen came home from her walk unusually pensive and thoughtful. She waited till after the evening prayers, and then asked Diantha to go with her down by the big cottonwood tree, for she had something to tell her. Sitting down on a grassy knoll, under the twinkling young stars, Ellen poured out her heart's confidence.

"You know how much Tom thinks of his religion, Dian, in spite of his odd ways. He is as good a Saint as the best, if he does make light of some things. I know his heart, for he has shown it to me, and I know he is one of our best men."

Dian looked as if she would like to introduce some of her own reflections upon the sincerity of Tom's religious professions, but from the serious tone of her friend's voice, she felt constrained to be as charitable as possible. So she contented herself with saying:

"Oh, yes, Tom is good enough. I don't believe he would do anything really dishonorable or bad for the world."

"Oh, Dian, he is really and truly a dear, good soul. I want you to know him better. For if you do, you will surely love him better."

Again Diantha looked her doubt upon this point; but the dim light of the young moon did not betray her opinion, plainly as it was expressed upon her mobile face.

"Dian, I am going to tell you something and ask you for your advice. You know I have great confidence in your judgment."

"Better ask Aunt Clara," said Diantha, afraid to trust her own opinion, where Tom Allen was concerned.

"No, I want to talk to you. Maybe some day I will tell Aunt Clara, too; but, just now, I feel like telling you."

The girl sat with her hand resting on her cheek, gazing into the clear starry sky above them. After a pause she said slowly:

"Dian, do you believe in dreams and visions?"

"Why, yes, of course I do; if they are of the right kind, and not brought on by eating too much."

"Well, I believe that we get many revelations through our dreams, if we only knew how to interpret them." Another pause; then the girl said softly: "Dian, Tom Allen has had a dream or vision about me."

The idea of Tom Allen having anything so serious as a vision almost upset Diantha, but she controlled herself and asked:

"What was the vision?" Diantha was rather curious now to know if she had been really mistaken in her estimate of Tom's character.

"Tom dreamed, or was carried away in a vision, and thought he lay upon his bed, very sick and nigh to death. As he lay there, pondering upon the past and future, he said he saw his door open softly, and, surrounded by a white light, I entered the room, with a banner in my hand, on which was inscribed: 'Marriage or death.' Then the dream ended."

Diantha looked at the serious face of her friend for one moment, and tried to get up and get away, but it was no use. Her keen sense of the ridiculous rendered her so weak with inward laughter, that, at last, she sank back upon the earth, and broke forth into peal after peal of ringing, hearty, uproarious laughter. She fairly screamed at the last, the absurdity of it all so overcame her that she could not control her mirth.

"What is the matter with you girls?" asked Rachel Winthrop, coming out of the house to see the cause of this violent laughter.

"Nothing, only one of Tom Allen's jokes," answered Diantha, for Ellen was too offended to say anything at all.

"Why, Dian, don't you think he dreamed that?" Ellen asked at last, in a hurt, low voice.

"If he did, he dreamed it with his eyes wide open, depend on that. Oh, Ellie, Ellie; anyone who pretends to be good and who is good to you, can pull the wool over your eyes, you dear little confiding thing."

But Ellen felt as if some one through this act, small as it seemed, had torn from her eyes a veil of confidence in things good and true that no one could ever replace. If things could only be different in this life! If she had only told Aunt Clara, she would have so measured her judgment and comment that this event would have strengthened Ellen's faith, while pointing out the absurdity in a sweet, motherly way! But to have Tom tell her such a thing; thus treating a sacred sacrament as a matter of light ridicule – this was most galling; and that she could believe it, too! It cut Ellen to the soul, to have her friend laugh so, as much at her own childish simplicity as at Tom's foolery. Oh, it was cruel!

But Diantha could not help laughing. The ridiculous picture, the banner; the inscription; it was too funny! Ah, foolish youth, so credulous, so incredulous, so tender, and yet so cruel! And only poets and prophets may tell us which is comedy and which is tragedy. For laughter may presage death, while death itself is the door to love and life eternal!

XX

A SOLDIER IN DISTRESS

There was a coolness between the two girls after the dream episode, which lasted for a number of weeks. Diantha could not see why her friend should take offense at such a trifle, as she termed it.

As for Ellen, she felt in an indefinable way, that somebody had, with the tiny point of a pin, shattered what to her had been the most beautiful bubble she had ever possessed. She was too little inclined to look back of events for causes, to attempt any rational explanation of the whole matter; she only knew that it had been delightfully romantic to fancy herself the subject of a vision and to feel she was the chosen of heaven for exalted positions; and when her one foolish trust had been shaken and her dream rudely dispelled, she felt as if there was not truth or stability in anyone or anything. The blow was crueller than her friend had any idea of; what the results would be only time and the offended girl's actions could tell.

Ellen now took her walks by the river alone. She shunned Tom Allen as coldly as she did Diantha Winthrop. She would wander off, and with a pensiveness peculiar in one so light-hearted, avoided everyone, whether friend or stranger. She would go to the old bathing place and after lying on the grass for hours in moody silence, slip on her old home-spun bathing dress, and plunging into the cool waters of the river, she would lave her hot and tired limbs in the cooling waters, after which she would feel better and able to go back once more to an existence which had become monotonous and dreary. Love and admiration are as necessary to women of Ellen's affectionate nature as are sunlight and warmth to growing plants.

One late spring afternoon she was, as usual, sporting and dashing around in the clear, swift stream, when suddenly raising her eyes, she saw on the opposite bank of the river a young man on a fine, restless, white charger; he was dressed in the becoming blue of a soldier; on his coat glittered and dazzled rows of brass buttons, and on his shoulders gleamed the insignia of army rank. He was looking at her very earnestly, and yet without seeming rudeness. Ellen sank at once into the water, so that nothing was visible but her head, and, turning away her face, hurriedly made for the shore, creeping along under the water as it grew shallower. The horseman, divining her fright, or actuated by some other motive, turned his horse's head, and galloped away in the direction of the ford, a quarter of a mile above where she had been bathing.

Oh, if she could only reach the shelter of her own home before this stranger could find her retreat! She flew to her leafy dressing-room, and with flying fingers adjusted her clothing, flinging her bathing-dress on the bushes and with heavy heart-beats in her throat she sped along the path to her home. She found that Aunt Clara had gone to a distant house where a child had died. Aunt Clara was away from home very much in those long summer days. She was busy with the sick bodies of her people; alas that she knew naught of the sick soul of one of the creatures that she loved better than she did her own life!

How Ellen longed to spring into her friend Diantha's arms, and to tell her all that had happened! But Dian was not at home, and when Ellen learned that she had gone out horseback riding with Tom Allen she wondered with a queer little hurt in her heart if a small jealousy had prompted part of Diantha's cruel mirth at her own expense.

Three days passed before Ellen ventured to take her customary walk by the river side. Then, indeed, her heart fluttered and sank, as she approached her leafy bower. But she saw no one and heard no sound to disturb her peace. She almost wondered, as she visited the spot day after day, if she had not possibly dreamed she saw the soldier on the opposite bank. She was getting silly on the subject of dreams, she told herself, scornfully.

One lovely afternoon, as the canyon breezes were blowing down from the many clefts in the eastern mountain walls, with the bees humming about her the song of the desert as they seized the sweets of every flower in her path, and the distant sound of the foaming river just insistent enough to mingle with the rustle of the cottonwood trees over her head, Ellen strolled along the accustomed path, and with nimble fingers wove for her uncovered brown braids a wreath of wild grasses and the pale purple daisies which skirted every path in generous profusion.

She thought resentfully of the many flowers which Aunt Clara said grew in such generous loveliness in her own native Massachusetts hills; there was nothing but hardship and desolation in Utah, with common daisies and cheap grasses for flowers. But on she wandered, sometimes humming softly and sometimes bitterly reflecting on her many trials, as she recalled the daily annoyances of her life. Suddenly she saw, a little ahead of her and out in the thick brush, a blue-coated man, either dead or asleep.

Her first impulse was to fly as with the wind, for her own safe home. But there was a sort of unnatural look about the figure; a distortion which could not mean sleep. She paused, her heart making such confusion that she had to hold her hand over it for a moment to still its wild beating. Then, with a vague, dark fear, her heart now choking her delicate throat, she cautiously approached the recumbent figure. No, he certainly was not asleep, for his head hung down limp over the bushes in a helpless way which could never be sleep. And as she approached nearer, she saw his arm flung out, the sleeve drawn tightly up, and a stream of blood pouring over the white cuff of the shirt and staining the outer blue sleeve with its dull sanguinary hue.

She looked at the face! It was colorless, and the lips were parted under the dark mustache, as if in death itself. What should she do? Again the wild impulse, the whispering voice in her heart, clamored for her to turn and flee to her own home and send some one out who could do much more than she, an ignorant girl. But what if the soldier should die while she was traveling all that distance? She looked into the face; it was handsome in the extreme, and about the whole figure there was an indefinable clinging fascination, which drew her onward so unconsciously, that she hardly realized what decision she had made until she found herself on her knees beside the recumbent form, tying up the gaping wound in the arm as tightly as she could with her own homely but strong cotton handkerchief; then over her own, she tied his own large handkerchief, which she did not fail to notice was of the finest texture and of snowy whiteness. She ran down to the river, and filling the pretty blue soldier cap with water, managed to get a little between his lips, and then she bathed his head and moistened his pale brows.

It seemed hours to her, but it was only a few minutes, before the dark eyes opened and gazed with seeming stupidity into her own. Then life returned to his face with a look, which in some way thrilled her to her very finger-tips – she could not say whether it gave more pleasure or pain – as it crept into the eyes of the soldier, and he gazed silently into the face bent over him.

Ellen colored and turned away, ostensibly for more water. The young soldier again seemed to sink into a faint and again she bathed and soothed his lips and head with the cool water, using her own modest apron to lay across his head as a bandage.

Without opening his eyes, the young man faintly gasped:

"Will you tell me where I am and what has happened?"

"Indeed, sir, I do not know. I found you lying here when I came along the path, and have done what I could to help you to recover."

Ellen asked no questions of the young man, her native modesty closing her lips; yet she was deeply anxious to know what had caused the singular accident.

"Be good enough to hold my arm up, so the blood may not surge so painfully in the wound, will you?"

Ellen obediently held up his arm, resting his elbow on her own knee to give it a firmer support.

"The last I remember," whispered the young man, "two horsemen were coming towards me, and one seemed to threaten me with an open knife or dagger. I threw up my hand to ward the blow from my heart, and I knew no more."

This peculiar story seemed to imply to Ellen's mind that some of her own people had noted the young man, and had tried either to kill or maim him. But she said nothing. Presently the girl grew brave enough to look at the handsome face beside her, as the eyes now remained closed, and the stranger seemed too exhausted to talk more. How fine and silky was the dark mustache which drooped charmingly over the well-cut mouth. The lips were very full; the chin was not so handsome and well-cut as the mouth; but the nose was fine, and the nostrils were delicate and arching; while the whole face was the handsomest she had ever seen, excepting that always handsomest of soldiers, Captain Van Arden.

A vague wonder possessed her, why it was that her own boy friends and lovers were never so brilliant, so stately and so fine-featured as were the few strangers she had seen. Were the "gentiles" all thus fascinating and charming in every way? Why must "Mormons" be always plain and uninteresting?

"Do you think you could help me off these beastly bushes?" asked the young man. "They make a very uncomfortable resting place."

Ellen hurriedly sought a place where she dragged away a few loose dried sticks and other debris, and then with all the strength she could muster, she half dragged, half assisted the stranger to the soft earthy couch under the willow and cottonwood trees.

The light of the afternoon sun fell in dancing glints and shadows on Ellen's brown tresses. The flowers on her hair gave her the look of a woodland sprite, which the dun-colored gown she wore, plain of skirt, but trimmed with ripples and ruffles of cunning device about the arms and shoulders, only increased. The flying draperies caught and flecked the sun and shadows of the cottonwood shade above them, making her resemble indeed a leaf-clothed maid, the occasional sunbeams deepening her eyes to their richest shade of chestnut brown.

"My name is Captain Sherwood, of the United States army. I came over here for a little hunting and fishing," the young man said after his removal to more comfortable quarters. "I hope I have not frightened you, for I am not worth the pain I fear I have given you. Please do not be afraid of me; I will get away from here just as soon as I can move, and shall not trouble you again."

"Oh, I guess I shall get over my fright. I am glad I could be of a little service. It is my duty to be kind to everybody, and especially to a brother officer of Captain Van Arden. I knew him when he was here a year ago."

"My child," said the officer, with emphasis, and speaking in a serious tone, "you have saved my life, and I shall never cease to be your most humble and grateful friend, no matter where you go, or what may become of me."

His dark eyes looked into her own with a soft appeal for sympathy and tolerance which was irresistible to the tender-hearted girl.

"Indeed I have done but little; I have only helped you to recover from your faint from loss of blood."

The young man winced at the simple, honest explanation, but sought again to impress his heartfelt gratitude upon the charming nurse he had secured.

"Perhaps if some wandering 'Danite' had discovered me, in my helpless condition, instead of your gentle self, I should now indeed have no need for help or comfort in this life."

"Indeed, sir, you mistake my people. They are not murderers nor cut-throats. I have heard that the 'gentiles' think that there are wicked men among us banded together to kill people, but in all my life I never saw or knew of such a band or ever saw such a being as a 'Danite.'"

The officer saw he had gone a little too far, and so he turned his face away and with a sigh, he moved toward the fast-setting sun, and murmured, after a short pause:

"How beautiful the effects of the parting sun-gleams are on your charming wild valley, with its glistening, turquoise lake, the snow-topped mountains, cleft and seared into gorges and canyon defiles, their uneven sides touched here and there with the deep green of the oak or the paler maple. You have a grand old castellated bulwark for the setting of your rural home."