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."