John Stevens' Courtship

"At least, let me have the opportunity of telling you, once for all, the love that fills my whole being for the angel who saved my life at the risk of the anger and ostracism of her own people. Will you not meet me for a few happy, happy moments while I tell you of my friendship and esteem? I will be on the northeast corner of the block on which you live, with a sleigh, tomorrow evening after nine o'clock. If you wear a white scarf over your head I shall see you in the distance, and know you are coming.

"I am forever your hopeless, despairing

"LOVER."

The note was written on heavy cream-tinted paper. It bore a beautiful crest or monogram in one corner, and it was sealed delicately with pink sealing-wax, stamped with a signet ring, which bore the device of some ancient French nobleman, and it was filled with a delicious perfumery, the odor of which floated around her like a visible presence. Ellen felt in her inmost soul that she should at once destroy this letter, and go to Aunt Clara with her whole secret; but it was such an entrancing letter! And John Stevens had flouted her so cruelly. No! She would keep the letter just to read it again! And then Ellen gave herself over to vague, delirious day-dreams.

XXIX

DIANTHA'S SUDDEN AWAKENING

Three weeks after the ball in the Social Hall, the two girls were at a rag-bee at Aunt Clara Tyler's. There was the usual light gossip, and jolly laughter, and as was always the case at Aunt Clara's home, everybody felt unusually kind and pleasant. Aunt Clara had the faculty of making everybody feel desirous of doing and saying the best that was in them.

"Did you hear that Tom Allen and his girl are to be married at last?" asked Sister Hattie Jones, who was busily threading her needle.

"You don't mean it?" answered Rachel Winthrop. "I really thought he was going to 'play off' on her and marry Ellie."

"I don't know how you could think that, Aunt Rachel," said Ellen, a trifle sharply; "I have never had the least notion of trying to cut Luna out, and my friendship for Tom was of the most platonic nature, I assure you."

Mrs. Jones saw she had made a mistake, and to cover her confusion, she began on another subject.

"Our Mark says that these soldiers are getting pretty impudent around here. He says he has seen an officer riding around this ward in a sleigh every night for the last three weeks. And he says, too, that this stranger had one of our girls with him, for he saw her get out one night, and he declares it is one of the girls in our ward. But he won't tell who; he is going to get a better look at the girl, he says, before he tells anyone who it is. I declare I don't see what our silly girls are thinking of, to run around with these soldiers, who will ruin them as quick as a wink, and then if they felt like it, they would shoot 'em besides."

Diantha looked in quick surprise at Ellen, the moment this story began, and she saw with infinite alarm the sudden flush which spread over her friend's usually pale cheek; and with the quick intuition of love, she divined that Ellen was the guilty girl. What on earth could she do? The talk drifted on and on, and Diantha listened and kept her intent, loving gaze fixed upon the drooping eyes of her beloved friend. The two girls cleaned up the supper dishes. Ellen talked with rapid garrulity, as if to prevent a single word being said by her companion. At last, when bedtime came, Diantha said, as calmly and as indifferently as she could:

"I believe I'll stay all night with you, Ellie darling, for Aunt Clara is going out again tonight, she says, to nurse the sick; she has to go out so much, doesn't she? But what would we do without Aunt Clara? She is a whole Relief Society of herself, isn't she? You and I haven't had a good talk since Christmas."

"Well, all right. But," the girl added hesitatingly, "I'm afraid we'll have to sleep three in a bed, for Aunt Clara has sent Cousin Alice to sleep with me tonight."

"Never mind," cheerfully responded Diantha, resolved not to be balked in her endeavor to know more about her friend's walks and ways; "I can easily do that, for I often have extra company, and you and I don't mind crowding a bit."

The girls hurried up to their room, soon after the evening prayers were over, and Diantha looked in vain for a third bedfellow. But she refrained from asking where the invisible Alice was, for she instinctively felt that Ellen had lied to her to make an excuse to prevent the talk Diantha had resolved to have with her friend. Dian was a wise girl, and she felt instinctively that it would not be prudent to urge herself upon her friend's confidence. So she chatted on other topics, and they were soon undressed and in bed. For some reason, Dian felt unusually wakeful, and she lay for a long time awake, with a curious feeling, a sort of expectancy of something, or somebody, which made the chills of uncomfortable fear race up and down her back. But at last she fell asleep, trying dimly to account for her strange sensations, and wondering vaguely who was coming. Sometime in the night she awoke, half-startled, and in a moment she was conscious, wide awake, and in perfect control of her faculties. It was the complete instant wakefulness which comes to mothers with sick children, or to men who watch their homes and loved ones in times of danger! She wondered for one brief instant why she was not in her own room, and then it flashed over her. She reached out her hand, and although she was in some way curiously prepared for it, she found her companion not at her side, and she felt all the shock of surprised dread which that discovery would necessarily entail. She lay still a moment, trying to persuade herself that Ellen had gone down stairs for a drink, or that she had gone into Aunt Clara's room, for some purpose, and at last she called out softly:

"Ellie, Ellie, dear!"

No answer came, and she was about to get up and find a light, when she heard the front door open, and directly after, the sound of hurried, muffled footsteps running up the stairs to her room, and she knew instinctively who it was.

"Ellen?" she said at once, as soon as the door opened.

"Yes," came the breathless answer, from out the darkness.

"Where have you been?" was Dian's rather stern question.

"Down stairs after some oil. I have a sore throat."

That was the second lie her friend had told her that night. Dian knew it would be useless to try to learn anything further, for more questions would only bring more lies, and she dreaded to hear another. It hurt her that her beloved Ellen should feel it possible to tell lies to anyone or for any purpose.

Dian could hear in the darkness the swift motions of the girl unrobing, and she rashly tried another question:

"What on earth did you dress for, Ellie, just to go down stairs after oil?"

"Would you like to run all over the house such a bitter cold night as this without any clothes on?" sharply asked Ellen.

Dian lay still after that, realizing how hopeless it was to think of probing the confidence of the girl she had driven away from her by her abstractions and neglect.

Dian's thoughts were bitter and remorseful. She could see now how at times she had paid little attention to the affectionate girl by her side, and how often she had allowed their confidences to remain unspoken when she herself was absorbed in some more congenial pursuit. She saw, too, her own thoughtless selfishness – was it selfishness? Dian was loath to admit that it was selfishness on her part which had driven Ellen to seek for friendship and confidence where it was given more freely. Was she, Dian, really selfish? Or was she just self-absorbed? And which was which? Whichever it might be, Dian felt she could never again be so self-centered. She must think of others more, and of her own life less. As to who had gained this confidence, even Dian dared not think. Neither of the girls could sleep, both were too agitated for repose. But neither felt to break the strained silence between them.

"I heard today at the rag-bee, Ellen," said Dian at last, gently, "that John Stevens was coming home from that trip into the north country. If he is here tomorrow night, we will have him over to our house, and have a candy-pulling."

"You'd better have him all to yourself, Diantha, for that will please both of you, and I guess it will hurt nobody else."

Ellen spoke in so low and bitter a tone, that Dian felt unable to say anything more until she had fathomed the reason for such anger.

"What has John, or what have I done that you should speak like that, Ellie?"

"Done? Done nothing, I guess!" still bitterly. "But it didn't take any smartness or particular discernment to see what was going on between you two at the Christmas ball. I can see as far through a mill-stone as anyone else, as your sister-in-law Rachel says."

Diantha was silenced.

What could it mean; Ellen Tyler sarcastic, bitter, and deceitful? What did it all mean? Diantha lay quite still, but she could not sleep. Her past life and her own faults came before her with startling vividness and she felt that in some respects she had been a sorry failure. She hated herself for all the thoughtless disregard for other people's feelings which had at times hurt her best friends. And she knew, too, that within herself there lay a wealth of devoted self-sacrifice at the roots of her soul. Life was at last assuming an impersonal attitude to this awakening heart.

What about Ellen? One thing Dian knew, and that was that Ellen had really liked John Stevens, and what did her bitter anger and her sarcasm at herself mean? She concluded that Ellen was jealous of her. Jealous! jealous of her, Diantha! What, then? What had she done to make her jealous? To think that they two should be at loggerheads over big, silent John Stevens! She herself had always openly declared that she never could love a red-bearded man. Well, John's hair was fine and wavy and it was rich brown, any one could see that. But his long silken beard! As she thought about it, it really seemed to her to be not so bad either. The heroes in the few novels and theaters she had read and witnessed all had mustaches, silken mustaches. None of them were pictured with long beards. That was for old men and farmers. However, there was something harmonious in the long beard of the tall, silent John Stevens. As she reached this point, the girl beside her sighed a deep, heavy, heart-sad sigh, which struck Dian as very unusual, especially with sunny Ellen Tyler.

What was Ellen sighing for? Oh, yes, she was jealous of her and John Stevens. Well, what would she, Diantha, do about it? She resented the suggestion which came into her mind, that she would show forth fruits meet for repentance for all her past selfishness by now being supremely unselfish, and giving up every hope of John Stevens. Then there flashed into her mind the attentions which that wicked soldier had been paying on the sly to Ellen; and now that she thought of it, why, of course that was where Ellen had been that night. And that was the reason that she herself had felt so strangely when she awoke. Ellen was in danger, and the inspiration of the Spirit and her natural instinct had warned her of her friend's danger. Ellen had been out with him! Now that she was in possession of the whole fearful secret what should she do?

Another deep sigh by her side made Dian turn swiftly over, and putting her arms around the girl, she drew her to her and as Ellen burst into a fit of passionate weeping, Diantha stroked her hair and soothed her without asking questions or attempting to pry into the confidence of the sobbing girl. Diantha knew that forced confidence is neither full nor satisfactory. Ellen sobbed herself to sleep, after which Diantha did some very serious thinking. She made her decision at last, and then with a deep sigh from her own heart, she fell into a broken, restless sleep, which morning broke with a glad release.

What that resolve was, was shadowed forth in her next meeting with John Stevens.

XXX

DIAN IS TRUE TO HER RESOLVE

It happened that when she came out of her home to attend her Sabbath services the next Sunday, she found tall, silent John Stevens on her doorstep, with a peculiar look in his eyes and a very fine new suit of homespun gray clothing his tall form.

"Oh," she gasped. Then as with a sudden impulse, "Come on, I am going to get Ellie as I go along. She must go to meeting with us this morning."

Now, as John had not seen Diantha since the memorable ball, and as he had certainly expected to get a greeting all his own without the mention of anybody else, he saw occasion to be very much surprised, if not a little annoyed. But as usual he said nothing, and they walked along, Diantha laughing with a quick, metallic sound, as if she were very happy or as if she were trying to conceal some undercurrent of emotion. John chose to interpret her looks and her manner to mean a rebuff to him, but he was slow to anger, and not easily disconcerted, so they strode merrily along the frozen path.

Ellen was very much surprised to see them enter her door, and she refused at first to go with them to church, as she had not made ready therefor, nor did she care to go. Diantha would not hear any excuses, and carried Ellen upstairs, to prepare hurriedly for the services.

As they approached the old – but then new – Tabernacle in the southwest corner of the Temple block, they could hear the organ's strains, accompanied by the united voices of the choir, as they sang the opening hymn. They were too late to enter till after the prayer, and so they stood outside on the step, and, as they stood there, they saw several officers approaching the door as if to enter the sacred building.

John at once stepped up to them and inquired casually:

"Can I be of any service to you, gentlemen?"

"We wish to attend your divine service this morning," replied Colonel Saxey, "and we presume it will not be offensive, as we wish merely to listen to your beautiful choir, of which we have heard so many complimentary things."

"Certainly, sir, you will be welcome." But out of John's eyes there flashed a gleam of hatred and suspicion toward one of the officers who lingered in the background. It was none other than Captain Sherwood. Sherwood caught the look and at once was on his guard; with consummate skill he directed his glances and his whole attention to Diantha. She returned his looks of admiration with cold, proud contempt, and she even went so far as to force herself between him and Ellen as they all passed up the aisle.

John saw Captain Sherwood cast glances of admiration towards Diantha Winthrop, and he saw, too, that she forced herself in between Ellen and Sherwood, but he failed to see the expression on Diantha's face. What wonder, then, that he drew a wrong conclusion? After this, his whole thought was centered upon watching the soldier, and he heard nothing of the eloquent sermon preached by Elder Heber C. Kimball. And very little did he hear of the really fine singing by the splendid choir of fifty voices led by Prof. C. J. Thomas, accompanied as it was by the tender, tuneful playing of that most beautiful and accomplished of all President Young's pretty daughters, Fanny Young.

Before the services were half over the officers withdrew, and John quietly took up his hat and followed them out. He never lost sight of them until they were mounted on their horses and well out of town. John wondered what they had come to town for, but he was sure of one thing, and that was that Diantha Winthrop had once more changed her fickle mind. Well, John was as proud as he was silent, and he stroked his beard with long, gentle passes, as he reflected upon life and its uncertain meaning for him.

The weeks flew by, filled with excitement, parties, false rumors of danger, and then again a few days' quiet would give the city a needed rest and comparative peace.

Diantha kept so firmly to her resolve that John Stevens could not secure her hand, even for a quadrille at a dance, as she was always just engaged. She would not allow him to speak to her one moment in private, and this so successfully turned his attention to Ellen Tyler that she breathed freely and felt that the sacrifice had been accepted and that her friend was saved.

XXXI

JOHN ALSO RESOLVES

The early spring had begun to clothe the towering mountain steeps with spotted robes of brown, gray and green; over the distant summits, the fleecy wind-clouds were torn and draggled as they trailed their white skirts across the sharp edges of the mountain tops. Out on the hills peeped the lovely rare bulb that the pioneer children called "sego-lily," and here and there nestled the early, pink star they called "Sweet Williams;" and rarer still, the tall, intensely blue bulbous flower that was known as "the blue-bell," hid its precious beauty beneath the gray walls of its shrubby friend the sage brush. Everywhere the sego lily nodded with its golden brown heart and its delicate, pouting lips of creamy white; while children ran and laughed and quarreled as they dug the mellow, luscious root they called in the Indian tongue, "segoes."

Boys began to drive the sheep from the valley winter quarters to the bunch-grass covered hills above; the herdsman took possession of his mountain hut beside the cold, moss-covered spring, perched high up in the tiny valleys of the upper mountain peaks. Out on the hills was heard the tinkling bell of the sheep, and the call of the herders echoed from peak to peak as they drove their hungry flocks through the upper vales. The low, dark green pastures on the marshy lands began to throw up their mellow juices into feathery wild oat stems, or filled the reedy grass with thin nectar for the few and very choice cows that waded around with slow pleasure in the Jordan meadows.

Down by the Jordan's banks the boys watched the cows through the early spring days, occasionally plunging into the cool water for a quick swim, longing for the hot summer days when hours could be spent in the water of the treacherous stream. Here and there a stray fisherman threw his rude line into the stream and occasionally caught a mountain trout, the speckled beauty glistening like silver as he threw it upon the bank. At break of day, the husbandman – and who was not a husbandman in those early pioneer times in these valleys? – drove his team afield – not in the mellow soil known to the home he had left in the East, but in the hard, uncultivated earth of centuries of sun-baked, rainless summers, down in the bosom of the barren valleys. He dug out the tall, gray-spiked sage brush and huge, flaunting sunflowers, and everywhere he trenched his land in regular lines to train down upon it the cooling streams which gave life and fertility to the otherwise hopeless soil.

The first days of April brought the annual Conference, and everyone in Utah laid aside work and prepared to attend the great three days' meeting. Men in the city brought into their homes great stores of flour and food to feed the visitors who would tarry with them during the Conference. Women cooked meats and pastry, washed and ironed sheets and quilts and filled the extra straw ticks to make temporary beds in every spare corner to accommodate their usual country visitors.

For many miles on all the country roads could be seen teams of all descriptions wending their way to Conference. A few horses, some mules, and often great ox-teams plodded their way city-ward. Men, women and little children cheerfully left their homes and comforts to take chances of any kind of hospitality for the privilege of attending the prized semi-annual religious services.

The yard of the Tithing office was filled with visiting teams and wagons of every description, and busy women prepared food and comfort for the hungry multitude gathered there. Children ran about, playing at hide-and-seek, or chased each other over the ground amid wheels and wagon tongues, grouped about in semi-confusion.

It was rather a cold and damp time, therefore the Tabernacle was well warmed for the people gathered in happy groups for this Friday morning. What exchanges of greetings were there as brother met brother and sister greeted sister! Months, perhaps years had elapsed since they had seen each other. Here was a family just come over from the "old country" standing up between the benches to greet the throng which crowded about them to shake their hands, for they had been good to the "elders" in England, and every elder wanted to take them by the hand and introduce them to his family. How quaint the old English pronunciation sounded on those newly imported English tongues, and how queer the children looked with their little bare, red arms, and their low, broad-toed shoes and white "pinafores," and how it made the Utah children laugh and stare to be told by these recent importations to "give over now, give over;" and how the elder would smile as the jolly mother of the new arrival would recall his words and ways while amongst them; and how his merry eyes would sadden and fill with tears as he heard the story of "our Mary who had died," or, far worse, perchance, had apostatized in spite of all teachings, and who had been left behind to her own backsliding ways! What great slaps were bestowed upon broad backs as Brother So-and-So came up behind Brother What's-His-Name and thus announced his pleasure at greeting his old-time friend!

As John Stevens entered the well-warmed and cosy building, a few minutes before the meeting was called to order, his eye involuntarily became brighter in sympathy with the merry confusion and bustle which he witnessed all around him. Everybody was standing up and talking to everybody else, while on the distant "stand" the elders were indulging in the same friendly and informal greetings. Crops, the weather, babies, death, marriage, sermons, soldiers, war, the millennium, new homespun coats, the possible advent of a woolen mill in the Territory, carpet looms, shoe lasts, prospective sawmills, and the best recipe for cooking dried service-berries, all these topics buzzed in endless variety and confusion around the well-filled hall.

But hark! all eyes are turned to the stand, as Brigham Young is heard calling the people to come "to order," and instantly all voices are stilled; the groups at once settle down into regularity, and the thoughts of the congregation are fixed upon the words of the heartfelt opening prayer of Elder Chas. C. Rich.

As the choir began its second hymn, John turned in his seat to see if Diantha and Ellen were in their seats in the choir. Yes, Diantha stood there with her lovely form clad in its classical, simple gown of homespun, fitting her like a molded glove, while the glorious eyes and scarlet lips were as beautiful as ever. He looked at her so long, and as she was unconscious of his gaze, so earnestly, that he forgot to look for Ellen.

After the hymn was over, however, he remembered Ellen and he soon saw that her place among the altos was vacant. Where was Ellen? he wondered; she was always at meeting.

John addressed to himself some very severe reflections, and as his mind left his own affairs and became partly absorbed in the sermon which Elder Orson Hyde was preaching, he gradually became conscious that he had formed a resolution. That resolution was to forget Diantha Winthrop as speedily as possible.

Now, this was a thing which John had never before contemplated. In all his past associations with the girl, no matter what coldness, neglect or discouragements he had experienced, he had never for one moment despaired of some day winning her for his wife. He knew intuitively something of human nature, and besides that he had felt in the depths of his own soul a whispering assurance that the girl belonged to him, and that his claim to her was one which had existed before they came to this earth. Therefore he had quietly gone along, never seeking to urge himself or his attentions upon her nor indeed upon any girl; he had concealed from her as from everyone else the secret of his preference, and he had lived for years with the hope in his heart which made his daily sunshine and sweetened his every night vision. Yet now, with awakened consciousness on his part, he found himself forming an invincible resolution never again to permit his thoughts or his love to go out to this girl who had given him at one time plain encouragement, and who had since, for no reason whatever, turned upon him a colder, prouder face than she had ever done in the old days before she had guessed his secret.