The two girls now strolled outward toward Solitude. On and on they
went, drawn by the beauty of the scene about them. As the upward
path brought them into the over-arched seclusion of the eternal
quaking-aspens, towering in highest majesty above them, their very
tones were hushed to reverence by the surrounding loveliness.
"Oh, this is indeed Solitude! Such solitude as only God can make
possible," exclaimed Diantha as the two emerged from the long path
among the tall trees, and saw the tiny gorge below them, ending in the
frowning, locked fortress above.
They lingered on the upward climb to Lake Solitude to gather bluebells
and columbines, and when they at last emerged on the rim of the rock
which stretched from peak to peak, enclosing that hidden, silent sheet
of glassy water, both felt that they had no words left to express their
pent-up feelings. It was gloriously beautiful! And so they sat down
upon the brink, and cast stones into the surface of the pool. They
were all alone in that retired spot. Their merry companions, and the
thousands of revellers had evidently taken other paths among the many,
each one of which led to other and more entrancing scenes than the last.
And in that silence and seclusion, the two girls, for the last time
in this life, opened to each other the heart's secret recesses, for
each to gaze upon. The sweetness of that confidence hallowed, for all
time, the place and the day. The tragedy of life hovered close to both
innocent souls, and above and about them hung the curtains of the
uncertain future. Ellen was never before so lovable and dear to Dian,
while Ellen, dear, affectionate Ellen, fairly revelled in this rare and
unreserved confidence shown to her by her adored friend.
A distant "Hello" reminded them that they had promised to be back
at camp in time to take the long trip up to an upper lake, and they
answered with another cry of "Hello," which was caught and repeated
a thousand times in the mysterious echo nestling forever under the
shelter of the chalk-white peaks. And back they sped, under the giant
quaking-aspens, to the edge of Lover's Lane. Just as they reached the
forest, Henry Boyle met them, his handsome young face glowing with the
exertions he had put forth to locate these wanderers.
"Hurry, the crowd are all waiting for you two. Aunt Clara has put up
our luncheon; John Stevens has got off guard duty for two hours, and
Charlie and Tom have both arranged to make the trip up to the upper
lake."
The girls ran down the slope with him and found the young people all
ready at the edge of the bowery.
"Are you children going?" asked Dian, not too well pleased to find a
group of noisy, half-grown children as part of their equipment.
"Ah, let them go, Dian," begged Ellen; "I will look after them, and I
know Harvey will be good, and the girls will stay right with me. Won't
you, girls?"
And with this promise, the whole party started up the steep ascent
towards the upper lake.
"In all my life," said Ellen, as the children swarmed around her, and
she found that John Stevens was to be her escort, for that portion of
the trip at least, "I was never so happy. I could sing if I only had
Diantha's voice; or I could dance, if I had Lucy's hornpipe steps; but
as it is, I must just shout aloud and cry 'Hello.'" And suiting the
action to the word, she put her pretty hands to the side of her lips
and cried down the valley:
"Hello! Hello!"
Ellen stood some time at this viewpoint on the southern peak, and the
children gathered around her and John to admire the exquisite beauty of
the scene spread out in the fairy dell below them.
"Was there ever anything more beautiful on this earth, Dian?" she
asked, in triumphant tones. "There is nothing to hurt or make one
afraid in all this holy mountain, is there, John?"
"Hush, Ellie," answered John. "I don't like people to fling the
gauntlet in the face of fate with such careless words."
"But, John, did you hear what the President said this morning?"
"Yes, I did. And it chilled my blood to hear him speak so; I have heard
him do such a thing only once before. Do you recall how he said, the
first year we came here, that he wanted just ten years of quiet and
peace and he would ask no odds of anybody."
"I don't remember it, John. I was only eight years old then, you know."
"True, child, I forgot. It is just ten years this very day since the
pioneers entered this valley."
"Oh, John, don't be superstitious. I must not listen to you if you are
going to prophesy evil. Come, the children are all going, and we will
lose our dinner. But listen once more while I cry 'Hello'," and she
cried again "Hello!"
Was it John's fancy, or did he hear afar off a long shuddering echo
which clung with sinister repetitions to every distant crag and peak?
"Why, John, what are you listening for? You scare me! I thought you
were the bravest of men."
"The bravest men take no chances with fate or men," answered John,
resuming his long upward stride beside his companion.
They found the whole party already gathered on the little island which
lay in the center of the second lake.
As John and Ellen reached the great rock on the south side of the lake,
they heard the sound of music floating in enchanted waves through the
vale of glory around them. John paused to listen.
It was Dian singing as she spread the homely viands on the smooth,
white rock which was to be their table on the Island in the center of
the lake. The sheen of her hair was caught by the sunbeams as they
danced across the still water, for she had thrown her sunbonnet down
upon the rock, as she plied her homely tasks. The boys had caught some
fish, and she was stooping over the camp fire to brown them for the
coming meal. Her stately beauty was never more apparent than when some
task of seeming ugliness brought the color ripe and rich to cheek and
neck, and thus she bent above her tasks, every detail visible in that
clear atmosphere to the watchers across the little lake.
Dian sang to the accompaniment of her brother Harvey's concertina,
all unconscious of the picture she made across those magic waters, so
near and yet so far away from those who loved her best. The soul of
her was still wrapped in dreams, and only half awakened to response
by her friends or family. And as she stirred about or bent above the
blazing fire, her voice swept poignantly over the distance as she sang
"Kathleen Mavorneen" in the reckless abandonment of tone taught her by
the little Italian music professor who loved to put his own fervid soul
into the unconscious voices of these youthful, sylvan artists, whom he
had so unexpectedly found in this strange country.
"The Day Dawn is Breaking," sang Dian, the concertina wailing and
mildly snorting in its brave efforts at complete harmony with Dian's
sweet voice, and Ellen listened, her own heart beating in her throat
with an admiration that was too generous to be envy. But oh, why could
she not sing?
"You people would better come over here if you want your dinner,"
called Charlie Rose. And as he spoke the odor of the frying trout made
invitation almost needless.
"Beside the lake their tryst they kept,
And rested not, nor ate, nor slept,"
sang Charlie.
But Diantha caught his words and added,
"The fish was gone, the lovers wept;
And wished their promise they had kept!
"If you folks don't hurry, we'll have every scrap of the fish eaten up."
The prosaic appeal reminded Ellen that she had left her friend alone
with the work of preparation of the dinner, and so they hastened down
to the other raft and soon paddled across to the island.
The picnic dinner was scarcely over before Tom Allen was down on the
narrow beach and calling for all hands to embark. The children followed
him quickly, and he managed to secure both Charlie Rose and Diantha as
his other passengers; just as Henry Boyle came running down the rocks,
Tom called: "Get the pole and give us a push from shore."
"Wait," called the young Englishman.
Boyle seized the pole, and sprang for the raft, but in an instant he
was waist deep in the icy water, and the raft was floating off beyond
his reach.
"Come and kiss yoo papa," yelled out the piping chorus of children's
voices, while Charlie recited dramatically, "The boy stood on the
burning deck," with his own absurd modifications of the original text.
Dian was angry with the children, thus to taunt their helpless and now
uncomfortable friend, but the children only cried out the refrain,
again and again, and that piping treble swept over the waters, as the
poor youth left behind waded up on to the shore of the island and
turned his back resentfully upon his jeering tormentors.
At that moment, John himself rounded the island with his own raft
and picked up the discomfited youth, whose once brilliant red shirt,
freshly ironed that morning by Rachel's kind hands, was once more faded
and streaked, and added to that humiliation was the awful discomfiture
of those dripping, wet, and heavy leathern pantaloons, bordered with
dripping fringe. Surely his punishment was very heavy.
"Hurry home," said John, kindly, as they landed, "and get on some dry
clothing."
As poor Boyle plunged and swashed on his hurried homeward way, the
cluck of those swishing breeches and the sluice of his brand new but
water-filled shoes made it difficult for even Ellen to keep herself
from joining the children in their peals of naughty merriment.
Yet, with all the sundry small mishaps, surely there had never been so
happy and so blissful a day vouchsafed to the "Mormon" refugees in all
their tempestuous short existence.
But the echo calls and calls from peak to peak and cries the challenge
out to happiness and freedom. And who shall answer, O spirit of a
nameless past, so long pent up in these hoary mountain vales!