XXII
IF YOU LOVE ME, JOHN
The question with which John Stevens troubled himself is one which any modest man dislikes to put to himself. If love comes in answer to the solicitation of love, the question is rarely asked; but if love has come from an unexpected source, the result is an effort to reciprocate that affection, or else a vague annoyance, a feeling of being injured in some inexplicable way, which will intrude upon the consciousness.
The afternoon after his arrival John spent with a hungry, passionate longing at his heart for a welcoming word from the one woman he had loved so faithfully and so devotedly for years. As Diantha passed out of the house on her way toward the river, he wondered why it was his heart should cling so tenaciously to her, in spite of her coldness and her neglect.
Why could not he love sweet Ellen best instead of the indifferent Dian, she who sometimes wounded her best and dearest, if it happened to meet her mind to do so? No use to ask; however, he knew that if he could not win her love, eternity would hold a regret for him, for this woman had become necessary to his happiness.
He sat under the cottonwood tree in the front yard as these reflections passed through his mind, and pulling his long beard with some impatience, he looked up in time to catch the laughing eyes of Ellen Tyler as she passed one of the front windows.
"Why, John, you look as if you saw a whole cavalcade approaching our house to drive us into the mountains. What on earth is the matter?"
"Nothing much, Ellen; come out and let's take a walk."
"All right, if you will go with me up into town, for Sister Winthrop wants some things from the Tithing Office."
"Come on, then." And away they sauntered in the warm sunshine, John determined to conquer his heart by the mere force of will, and Ellen as determined to grasp this straw of protection and comfort which seemed held out to her by the strong, safe hand of her loved friend.
John was really lover-like in his manner this afternoon, and poor, perplexed Ellen's heart opened to the warm sunshine of that sympathy like a half-withered, thirsty flower. Little by little, she confided to him the story of Tom Allen's unfortunate dream, and she felt comforted and strengthened by the serious and kindly way in which John explained to her the irreverence manifested by Tom in thus attempting to jest upon such a holy, solemn subject. And John was wise enough to palliate Tom's error, so that Ellen was left with a peaceful, quieted heart, which held no bitterness for Tom and very little of anger against Dian for the unseemly mirth that young lady had manifested. How good, and how wise John was! What a splendid soul was hid beneath his cool and deliberate manner! Surely she could win his heart; at any rate she was going to try.
"Do the soldiers come over on this side of the valley very often?" she asked, as they had exhausted the other subject.
"I should hope not. I would not want to find any of them prowling around here; it might be the worse for them, if I did," answered John in a sort of low, threatening growl.
"Why, John, you would not object to their breathing the same air as we do, would you?"
"It depends. I don't want them near this town, be assured of that."
A dim suspicion that the young officer she had met so often of late was right in his surmise that her own people would kill him at sight if they found him near their towns, made her ask another question:
"John, if you should happen to find one of those soldiers out shooting or fishing near the river, would you try to do him any violence?"
Something in her tone gave him a vague uneasy twinge. He looked quietly into the flushed face and bright uplifted eyes for a moment, and then asked instead of answering:
"Ellen dear, have you ever seen one of those soldiers on this side of the river?"
It took a great deal of courage for Ellen to answer that question truthfully; yet with those keen, kindly, piercing eyes upon her, she could but tell the story of her first meeting with Captain Sherwood, leaving her story at the close of that long interview without adding anything as to further meetings and conversations.
She was very glad she took this precaution, for she was fairly frightened at the terrible expression of wrath which overspread the features of her companion. He said not a word for several minutes, and she grew seriously alarmed at the anger in those eyes, always bent upon her in such kindness, as she wished heartily that she had said nothing whatever about the matter. At last she ventured to say:
"What is it, John; are you angry with me? I could not help it."
The man divined at once that he had startled the girl, and perhaps closed her lips for the future; so with a profound effort, he stilled the tempest of wrath in his heart, and made out to laugh a little, as he replied:
"What a bear I must be, to frighten an innocent child like you. No, my dear girl, I am not nor could I be angry with you. You could never give me cause for anger. I might be hurt or sorry about you, but you would never make me angry."
He paused again, as if to collect himself still further, and then said:
"Tell me about it again, Ellen dear."
Thus quieted, Ellen began at the beginning.
"Did he say that the 'Mormons' had stabbed him?" asked John.
Ellen had to think a moment, and then answered: "No, I don't think he mentioned 'Mormons,' but of course, I thought he meant 'Mormons.'"
As the story proceeded, John stopped her at every point, and insisted on having the most explicit explanations. When the story was again completed, John turned the keen, kindly eyes on her pleading face and said:
"You were a brave, true girl to defend your people against the slanders about the 'Danites;' and I don't think you have it in your power to run away from a sick kitten, much less an injured man, if you thought you could help him. So don't blame yourself one bit, it was all right so far as you were concerned. But as for that devil in human form, let me show you how improbable his whole story was. For instance, do you think a man like that would ride around here to hunt and fish? He has seen some girl down here" – Ellen was glad she did not say anything about the bathing incident, "and has come over here hunting our girls to ruin and destroy them. And do you think he would come without a pistol? And if he had one, would he let someone get near enough to stab him? And if a man wanted to kill him would he stop short with a cut on the arm? And then, would such a man tie up the soldier's horse, safely to a tree, so that he could get up and run away whenever he wanted to? Bosh, it was a trick which no one but a trusting, unsuspecting woman would have been ready to accept as a fact. But there, my dear, you are not to blame at all; it is all over now, thank God, and I am very sure you will not go out alone again, especially near the river, or far away from home in any direction."
"Why, John, all our folks go down to the river at times; did not you see Dian starting for a walk down there just as we were leaving the house to come up here?"
Again that white, silent wrath spread over the face of her companion, and added to it was a flaming redness which seemed to leap into his eyes instead of his cheeks. The effect of her words frightened the girl at his side. Truly he had seen Dian start out that way; he remembered it all very clearly now, but in his proud endeavor to drive her out of his heart, he had also driven her out of his mind.
"I dare say, John dear, she is expecting to meet Tom Allen or Charlie Rose down by the river, for you know Dian has a way of always having a string of beaus running after her."
This was said to comfort John, and to assist in driving from his face that awful anger whose white silence so terrified her.
After a pause John asked her:
"Do you want to go with me down to the river and show me where it is that you met this man? It is barely possible that Dian may have gone in the same direction."
They were returning from town now, and Ellen answered:
"Of course she has, for the place where I met him is just where Dian and I cleared away the underbrush purposely for a little shady retreat for the both of us, and until we were mad at each other a few weeks ago, we never went there alone, and rarely missed a day but washdays and Sundays of going there to talk and rest. Of course, I will go with you, only let us go by the house, so I can leave these things there for Aunt Clara."
There was very little said on that riverward walk. Ellen was thinking sadly of the many times she had met and talked with the young stranger, of which she dared not speak to her companion, and of how foolish she had been to run such risks. She was thinking, too, of Dian being down there, and wondering with a vague jealousy if Dian had also been there when she knew it not, and if she too was courting the admiration of the officer. But she put this away in a moment, for she would not do Dian the injustice to suppose that with all her proud and self-centered spirit, she could deliberately do such a criminal, deceitful thing as that would be. She forgot to designate her own conduct as severely as she was doing the faintly supposed conduct of her friend. But, then, Dian was such an eminently proper young woman that no one ever suspected, much less accused her of doing anything unladylike or at all imprudent.
As for poor John Stevens, he had been laboring for years, ever since he had been a man, with a man's understanding of life and its responsibilities, for the acquisition of the severe self-control necessary to subdue his passionate nature. He had fought such a gallant fight against his love for Diantha Winthrop, that no one, not even Dian herself, suspected the profound emotions which had been so hard for him to control. He had learned to control his temper, that fierce, vicious thing, which his dead sainted mother had trained him from early youth to hold in check; about which he had often prayed, aye, and even fasted, that it might never rise beyond his power of government; but now, indeed, when he felt both love and anger flooding his soul in such an overwhelming tide, he was powerless to hold both flood tides in check. His hands kept clinching and twisting in unavailing impotence, and his throat was so dry and parched that he could not have uttered a word. His whole being was for the time a darkened void, where nought but a fearful apprehension and hot anger could penetrate his consciousness.
He walked beside his companion in silence, which was far worse than another man's rage.
"Why, John, I think I am more frightened of you than I was of the soldier," said Ellen at last. The silence had become too oppressive for her. "I can't imagine what ails you today. I thought you were the gentlest and quietest of men."
John stopped short in their walk, looked up a moment into the burning sky above him, stroked his beard with a slow motion, and with a little preparatory cough to clear away the dryness in his throat, he said in his drawling voice:
"Oh, don't be afraid; I would not injure even a soldier, if it were not wise or right to do so, my girl. I feel a little angry, that is all, that any one should seek to entangle our girls and draw them away from the safety and purity of their own innocent happy lives. That is all. Don't be afraid; I dare say both you and I are imagining a lot of things which will never happen. You will soon forget all about this handsome devil, while we will find Diantha down there quietly talking with Tom or Charlie Rose, or some other nice fellow, and she will be angry to see us come spying on her love affairs."
Yet, even as he spoke, his keen eyes detected away in the distant trees, where the brush had been cut away and the eyes could travel some distance in the green embrasure, a glint of a white dress, and he was sure that the coat beside the dress was a blue one, not the dark homespun he knew would be worn by his own people.
Both John and Ellen quieted every evidence of their approach, and Ellen fell behind her companion, with a dreadful shrinking fear at her heart, mixed even then with a bit of jealousy of her friend's apparent free understanding with her own cavalier.
"What are you doing here?" growled a low, husky voice behind the two, who were seated on a fallen tree, apparently absorbed in a book.
Diantha Winthrop looked up, startled, yet with full control of herself.
"Oh, John, this is Captain Sherwood, of the United States army, you know, and he is reading Shakespeare to me, for you know how fond of poetry I am."
"How did you come here?" again growled the husky voice, unheeding the brave, frank explanation so coolly offered him.
The young officer threw back his head, partly because he was encouraged by the apparent lack of fear on the part of his companion, and also because of the fact that no matter if possessed of every fault and sin in the decalogue, Captain Sherwood was no coward.
"Well, my good fellow, even if your question is not a very civil one, I will give you a civil answer. I came here, as I usually go everywhere, on the back of my trusty horse. I suppose that even a soldier is permitted to go where he pleases in this free and semi-civilized domain belonging to Uncle Sam. Have you any objections to my going wherever I please?"
John folded his arms and waited quietly for more explanations.
The soldier also waited a moment, and then, constrained to say something more, in spite of himself, he added:
"This young lady has condescended to let me read to her some of the eloquent classics found in our immortal Shakespeare. But perhaps you know nothing of poetry, and Shakespeare's name may not even have a meaning for you."
The insolence of this reply did not provoke the other to outward anger, although it certainly had its effect. Just at this moment Ellen came out from her retreat, and as the soldier caught sight of her he swept off his cap in a magnificent bow, and with a fine and dignified manner, the manner of a southern gentleman to a woman he wishes to please, he said softly:
"It is a rare pleasure to see Miss Tyler." Then as he saw that the girl's face was white with fear, and her hands clasped in evident pain, he bowed and added: "Do not be alarmed, madam; I am too insignificant for your friend to seek to harm me, and as for him, it is sufficient to know that he is your friend; he and his are sacred to me from this moment; I would not injure him or them even if my life pays the penalty."
There was a grandiosity about this speech which struck upon Dian's nerves a little unpleasantly, but to Ellen the tone and manner seemed the most gentlemanly and elegant she had ever witnessed; while his evident emotion at seeing her flattered her vain soul with infinite sweetness.
All this while John had stood watching everything and saying nothing. At last Dian approached him, and laying her hand fearlessly upon his arm, she said in a slightly shaken voice, although still with perfect self-control:
"I hope, John, that you will remember that this gentleman has done nothing offensive, and that it was my fault that he remained here to read to me. You will allow him to return to his own place without the least molestation from anyone. For the rest, I alone am to be held responsible."
John groaned in spite of himself. Both the girls, like the women they were, would not cast blame upon the sneaking man, thus taking away his only weapon of revenge. That groan startled Dian, and made Ellen tremble like a broken reed in the wind, and even the soldier's face paled a little at its intensity. But Dian was equal to the occasion; her fine common sense stood her in good stead. This was no time to be romantic; good practical sense and reason was what they all needed now. She caught hold of his arm with her own small but firm hand and said calmly and distinctly:
"Look here, John Stevens, there's no sense in your getting angry. You know well enough that President Young has said repeatedly that there should be no blood spilt in these times, and you know, too, that this gentleman is not to blame if a girl chooses to accept his invitation to spend an hour in his company. Just calm yourself, for neither Ellen nor I have committed any sin, and we are old enough to have some rights of our own. And I am not going to be dictated to by any creature on this earth, man or woman! Whatever you want to say to me must not be said in anger."
John looked into the eyes of the woman beside him, and with such a look! He was muttering under his breath: "Oh, God help me!" And the anguish and love and anger and struggle for self-control which were shown in that look shook even Dian's heart with a vague trembling which she could not understand.
"Dian, you take Ellen and go home. I shall do nothing rash, God help me, and you need have no fear; but I beg you to go quietly home, and take good care of Ellen."
Moved by some inexplicable impulse, Dian drew herself close to him and in a low whisper she said:
"Don't be harsh, John," and then lower still, "if you love me, John."
XXIII
DOWN BY THE RIVERSIDE
Diantha turned away, and putting her arm around her friend, they sped through the late afternoon sunshine to their home with flying feet, silent tongues and an unspoken prayer in both hearts for John Stevens that he might not be overcome.
As for John, he strode up to the soldier, as soon as the girls were out of hearing, and with the low roar of an angry lion, he growled:
"What is to hinder my choking the dastard life out of your lustful body?" As he spoke, quick as a flash, he had pinioned the man's arms, and with the grip of an infuriated animal, he had his hands around the white, gentlemanly throat, and for a moment his passion so blinded him that he knew nothing, saw nothing, but a huge, black cloud which overspread all nature and his own heart.
This murderous impulse passed, and with another awful groan, he released his hold, and with a fling, threw the stranger away from him, and quickly turning his back, buried his face in his hands, while one hot, silent tear scalded his repentant eyes.
The soldier, after a few moments of insensibility, came to himself, and with a profound effort, he dragged himself up, and shaking his body together, he stood upon his feet, and said, quietly and sneeringly, though somewhat hoarsely:
"You asked me a very queer question, my good fellow, and if I had not more regard for law and decency than you seem to have, I would answer it like this" – with the words, John felt the muzzle of a revolver at his ear. Again, with the flash of a tiger, John seized the other's arm, twisted the pistol out of his hand, and with a quick, backward spring, he had thrown the weapon into the brawling river beside them, while with a deep sneer in his voice, he answered:
"Do you think, you soldiers, that you are out here with nothing but squaws to oppose you? Men who have wives and homes to protect are not afraid of popguns." And then, as if mastered anew with the terrible emotions surging in his breast, John asked, slowly: "What is to hinder my sending your soul to hell, where it rightfully belongs?"
This time the soldier looked into the hot, angry eyes close to his own, and perhaps his own bravery had some effect in calming John, for after a few minutes, the soldier folded his own arms, and with a light touch indicating the epaulets upon his shoulders, he said, almost airily:
"Oh, I dare say that even you have some respect for this Government of ours. And perhaps, too, your wholesome fear of displeasing the notorious Brigham would hinder you from disgracing yourself."
John said nothing, and the other quietly went to the tree where his horse was fastened, and untying and mounting his steed, said lightly:
"Have you any messages to send to our fort? If so, I shall be pleased to carry them."
"Yes, you may tell your commander-in-chief that if he wishes to keep the heads of his men on their shoulders, he would do well to keep them away from our towns. We will defend our homes and our virtue with our lives."
The soldier was now on his horse, and comparatively safe, so he ventured to reply tauntingly:
"Ah, my dear fellow, don't trouble yourself; the women will hunt us up. I know the dear creatures better than you do. You are very unsophisticated, depend upon it. We shall soon have hard work to keep out of the way of them. Ta, ta!" And before John could move, he had dashed away in the trees, and was soon out of sight and hearing.
John Stevens was left behind with all the agonized load of fear and dread which swept over him like a mountain cloud-burst. He leaned against a tree and with arms folded across his breast and head dropped, he heaved many a sigh and shed some scalding tears. The thing he had most dreaded in the onslaught upon his people had come to pass. And to think that the two women he loved best upon the earth should be in the greatest danger from this scourge. Death for the men; hunger, cold, war, pain, all these were slight things compared with the danger which had been ever present. The temptation which would assail the youth of both sexes, but more particularly the young women, to forsake the simple, honest lives of their people, and to become involved in the sins and corruptions of the outside world; this had been his constant dread. Was this not Zion? Was God not coming from His hiding place to keep Babylon from our midst? With all the strength of his soul he loved chastity and purity. He had, at what cost no one but a strong man may tell, kept his own nature as sweet and pure as that of any woman, and he knew that in strictest chastity only there was safety and peace for either man or woman in this life or the life to come. Why was he so sensitive to all these impressions and fears? Why could he not be like Tom Allen, careless and unthinking as to past, present and future, unless it affected his own pleasure? But he knew he could not. Gifted with a peculiarly sensitive and keenly perceptive nature, he saw far beyond the present action; he saw the end to which such action tended, in a measure, and he suffered with the intensity of such a soul, when he or any he loved turned aside from the narrow, straight path of chastity and right.
After hours of silent suffering and struggle, he arose to find the stars shining above his head in a shimmering peace, and with a heavy, but quieted heart, he made his way home to the village beyond. He resolved that he would seek Bishop Winthrop the next day, and perhaps even go to President Young for some counsel in this terrible situation.
The bishop was much moved and excited over the events which had involved his own sister, as well as the step-daughter of his friend, Clara Tyler. The bishop suggested at once that they should go to see President Young, and lay the whole affair before him for counsel. They found President Young full of business cares and anxieties concerning the fate of his people, but when the two men entered, the President asked them to go with him to his inner room, and they could then present their business before him.
John Stevens told the whole story, not adding one detail, nor seeking in the least to exaggerate the danger or the wrong attempted. But his brief, quiet statement did more to lay the true state of the case before the President than a torrent of language could have conveyed. Bishop Winthrop was very much wrought up, and begged the President to take steps to prevent any such meetings in the future. He was for threatening to kill any soldier who was found outside of his own barracks.
The President listened to the wild talk and plans of his excited companion as he had to the quieter, yet intenser recital of John Stevens. After each had said all he cared to say on the matter, the President, who had been twirling his thumbs, as was his custom when in deep thought, turned his piercing eyes upon the two men so anxiously regarding him, and said slowly:
"It's no use, brethren, to try to force people to do right. You can't keep people virtuous by shutting them up in prisons. The only way that I know of to get men or women to walk in the path of virtue and righteousness, is to teach them correct principles, and then let each one govern himself. If our daughters want to do wrong, if they can't find any of our boys who will help them, they will find plenty of men in the world ready to ruin them. After such girls have learned their lessons they will be glad to creep back to father's hearthstone, and to sit under the shelter they once despised. Teach all to do right and to live their religion, and give them their agency. Let parents live their religion and go quietly along, and some day their children will all come back to them."
This was hard counsel for these two men to follow; they were so anxious, so full of loving solicitude for the two beautiful girls in question. After a moment the President looked searchingly at John Stevens, and said inquiringly:
"Brother Stevens, why don't you court one of those girls and marry her yourself? The best way to drive out evil is by introducing good in its place. Women and men both desire to love and be loved; and I sometimes think our Elders will be held responsible for the loss of our girls, if they make no effort to give them a love worthy and pure."
The conference was ended, and John felt the whole burden had been flung back on his shoulders. Well, he was strong and willing; he was no coward, either. But how could he do the impossible?