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."
Now, all this was astounding to simple Ellen. To hear her gray, sage-covered, barren valley home described as in any way beautiful, and to know that such lovely descriptive albeit high-flown and theatrical words could be used in connection therewith, was a veritable revelation to her.
But the allusion to the setting sun awakened other thoughts in her heart. Hastily rising, she sought her sun-bonnet, as she said:
"I must go. It will be twilight now before I reach my home. I shall send someone down to help you and bring you to where you can be taken care of."
Evidently this was not at all to the young man's mind, but repressing outward expression of his feelings, he simply asked, "Will you not go back to the place of my accident, and see if you can see anything of my horse? I don't think he would wander away from me, he is too much of a pet; and if you can find him, I am sure I shall be able to mount and get back to my quarters without putting you or your people to any more trouble on my account."
By some queer mental process, Ellen inferred that the soldier had good cause to fear the ministrations of her own people, and yet she did not know how to answer such an inference. So she simply hurried back to the spot indicated, and there, not twenty feet from where she had found the officer, she saw the white horse, quietly barking the cottonwood tree to which he was carefully tied.
She unfastened him, and leading him onward, remarked:
"I guess your enemies, whoever they are, did not intend real harm to you for they have left your horse securely tied not far from where you lay."
"I certainly owe them my heartfelt gratitude for that much; and to you I owe, what shall I say?" She was assisting him now to rise, and her face was close to his own, while his eyes shone with the look that had dazzled her once before. "Shall I say that I owe to you not only my heartfelt gratitude, but its inmost devotion?"
Ellen trembled, with a vague feeling which was half repulsion, half enchantment. She had never in her most romantic dreams imagined anything half so sudden, nor half so eloquent as she felt this warm, openly expressed admiration to be. She hardly knew whether it pleased or frightened her most. One thing was sure, she was so anxious to get back home that she hardly said another word to her companion. As he stoopingly bent over his horse in evident weakness and raised his cap with his uninjured hand, he said in a low, thrilling tone: "This beautiful green retreat will be to me for the rest of my life a sweet, solemn temple. For here I have met not only a threatened and averted danger, but have seen and known its high priestess to be a maiden with an angel's face and a heart of gold. May heaven guard you, my sweet friend, till we meet again."
Ellen gave him one shy, half-frightened glance, and then with her heart choking her throat with violent emotion, she sped like a timid hare to her home, through fast deepening twilight. The soldier, once the girl was out of sight, coolly straightened out his arm, put the bandage in his pocket, snapped his fingers at the distant mountain peaks and rode away whistling a French love ditty.
At the door Ellen met Aunt Clara, just going out with a bowl of gruel to a neighbor's sick child. Aunt Clara noted with her ever observant eye the quickened breathing, the air of indefinable excitement about the girl, even in the gloaming twilight, and pausing to stop Ellen from entering the house, she asked quietly:
"What is the matter, dear? You pant as if you were excited, and your eyes shine so in the dark that they look like stars. Have you been frightened, and where have you been?"
"Oh, I've just been running a little, for I stayed down the river too long, and had to run to get home before dark. No, I haven't been frightened, at least not to speak of. You know," she added, with an uneasy laugh, for Ellen had not learned yet to tell a direct lie, "that girls are natural cowards, Aunt Clara, and are frightened at their own shadows."
"Well, girls should always be careful, and especially at these times. Why, Brother Winthrop says all this excitement about the army coming in has made the Indians very uneasy and uncertain, and you girls have no business away from home, especially alone. What if some of those wicked soldiers should take it into their heads to come over the valley snooping around here! Let me warn you, Ellie, – for I feel the spirit of it strongly upon me, for some cause or other, – don't you ever venture away from this house, either night or day, unless you have safe and sufficient company."
For one breathless moment Ellen longed to throw herself into those blessed, kindly arms and sob out her whole confession. But Aunt Clara turned hastily, and said as she started away, "Some day, dear, you and I will talk more about this matter. But I must hurry away now to see Sister Harris' baby."
XXI
JOHN VISITS ELLEN
The days came and went after this, with pain, pleasure, work, and mingled hopes and fears. Life was just now full of exciting plans, forecasts, and prophecies.
Dian Winthrop went on her own sensible yet self-contained way. As her friend Ellen seemed able to do without her, she was content to be left alone. She worked and laughed and dressed and thought her own, serious, deep thoughts about life and her own being upon the earth, untroubled by fears, and full of the common trust in the God of her fathers, knowing that she would be well taken care of by her friends and family, no matter what might happen.
She "kept company" in an eminently sensible way with Charlie Rose, whenever he sought her out. While congratulating herself on the invariable frankness with which she showed the young man that good as he might be he was not her ideal, yet she allowed him to spend all his spare means in taking her to their simple picnics and visits with which the young people whiled away their leisure time of waiting.
She did not allow the least attempt at a flirtation with Tom Allen. She had not enough regard for him to make herself agreeable to him. But she herself was such a fine, handsome, superior looking and acting girl, and so admired by everybody, that Tom could not resist the temptation once in awhile of taking her out and thereby giving her a chance of understanding and appreciating him at his own advanced valuation.
Poor little Ellie, starved for her friend's confidence, shrinking with dread of what the future might bring her, and yet longing to meet and greet that danger, was half the time full of an unnatural gaiety, half the time moody and preternaturally grave and silent. One night, when she and Aunt Clara sat in the front door of the hut, watching the moonrise in unequaled splendor over the gap in Rock Canyon, they heard a horseman coming up the street, and in a moment he appeared in front of their gate. His cheery "whoa" to his animal caused Ellen to run hastily out, exclaiming,
"Why, it's John Stevens! Oh you dear old John, how glad I am to see you!" and as John sprang from his horse, she threw her arms around his neck, as if he were her own dear brother, and thus she sobbed out her joy and her vague fears on his friendly shoulder.
The tall, silent man allowed her to cry until she was calmed, and while he felt every throb of her tenderness in his own responsive soul, he felt, too, that underneath it all, there was something deeper and more serious than he could at present fathom. He left that to a future, better understanding, however, and contented himself with gently stroking her soft brown braids, while he chatted with Aunt Clara about matters of interest to both.
Once inside the house, and John's supper over, Ellen seemed a very spirit of mischievous attraction. She fluttered around her great, big, red-bearded friend; and with the sweetest smiles and most coaxing fascination, seemed a very magnet of charm. John did not try to resist this unconscious effort of Ellie's to be winsome and loving as he sat with his eyes bent gravely upon her, occasionally answering her witty sallies; inwardly, however, he was anxious to unravel the whole of this perplexing, if delightful, mystery.
Aunt Clara noted all these things, for when did she ever fail to see all there was to be seen when she was present? But she wisely left the young people to arrange their own affairs, discreetly proceeding with her knitting, and putting in a remark now and then, only as occasion seemed to require.
Was Ellen in love with him? This was the question which forced itself upon John's mind, in spite of his modesty. Or, was there something else which caused all this excitement?