"DO YOU CARE FOR JOHN STEVENS?"
Several evenings later, at supper, Tom Allen remarked that the Snows
were coming over to spend the evening, and he wondered if they could
have some games in the front yard, as it was a bright, moonlight night.
Both Diantha and Ellen were waiting upon the table, and no one for the
moment seemed anxious to answer Tom's remark. Sister Winthrop, as well
as Aunt Clara, had evidently heard something of recent events, and both
were very serious and quiet. But the others of this large and oddly
assorted family assemblage had heard nothing, and accordingly the idea
of having some games to help pass away the brief summer evening with
plenty of music of concertina and accordion was received with general
favor.
It was a little puzzling to Diantha to see the lover-like attention
of John Stevens to her friend Ellen that evening. They sat together,
they chose each other for every game, they talked together in the most
confidential manner, and at last ended by going off together for a walk
before the evening was half over. Of course, she had seen them act just
that way before; but then she had cared nothing whatever about it;
John was always very queer, and she never knew quite how to take him.
In fact, that was about the only reason she had retained the slightest
interest in him. A girl does so dislike a man who lets her know all
there is to know about himself! A little discreet reserve is such a
charm in a man.
Now, my lady Dian felt that she had been actuated by a very uncommon
feeling down in the grove, and she had actually stooped to ask a
man to do a favor for her own sweet sake if he loved her, forsooth.
Certainly that man ought to respond by devoting himself to her at once
and forever. And that man was doing the very opposite thing. Dian had
forgotten that she was wearing Charlie Rose's ring; had quite forgotten
all that might be involved or inferred from such a circumstance. She
watched and waited for their return from the walk, feeling for the
first time in her life, that somebody had slighted her.
It was not altogether an accident that she sat under the cottonwood
tree on the return of the two, nor was it wholly by design that my lady
looked like the very spirit of the night, with her simple white dress,
her pale yellow gleaming hair breaking about her face in rings and
waves, while her white arms, bared to the elbow, rested on her lap and
deadened the white of her dress by their warm, creamy tints.
Charlie Rose stood at a little distance, evidently enjoying every
detail of the beautiful picture as he leaned on the rude bars of the
fence near Dian. Ellen came up to Dian, and as John sat down on one
side of her, she slid close to her friend on the other side, and put
her arms lovingly around her neck.
"Oh, Dian, isn't the night lovely?"
"Yes, dear, it is. But it is getting late and we must go in."
John sat so close to the fair-haired girl that he could see the starry
shine in her soft blue eyes, and as he looked at her beautiful face
the remembrance of the scene he had witnessed in the grove, and that
this dear girl had been gazed at and admired by a wicked man, brought
the hot tide of feeling welling up in his heart, and he was obliged to
turn away his face from her dazzling beauty, while he slowly stroked
his long beard, and listened to Charlie Rose exchanging poetic nonsense
with the two girls.
"Two stars agleam in the silent night
Two girls a-dream in the soft moonlight,"
improvised Charlie.
"The girls have a dread of a cool evening breeze,
For they catch a stray cough, two colds and a
sneeze,"
jeered Dian in response. And she took Charlie's arm as she allowed him
to escort her into the house.
Ah, John Stevens, John Stevens, your lesson is not learned yet!
As the two girls said good-night to their friends they instinctively
sat down on their wagon-box bed for a long talk, something neither had
enjoyed for weeks; and they felt all the joy of recovered confidence.
What if Dian did feel a little half jealous of Ellen, and Ellen was
more than a little jealous of Dian! They were girls, and were sincere
friends. Jealousy could not rob them of their real affection for each
other; they were both too noble for that.
In the long and confidential talk which followed, Dian learned far
more of the young soldier's visits than had been told John Stevens.
And while Dian could see that her friend had been in a very dangerous
position, her own foolish action of the afternoon before closed her
lips against giving the good advice with which she was generally so
ready.
"But, you know, Dian, that it is all over now, and I am going to behave
myself after this. Say, Dian, do you care anything about John Stevens?"
The question was a frank one, and Diantha was not the person to evade
any sort of a question. But she was also honest, and she sat some
minutes before giving her answer. She wanted to tell the exact truth.
"No, I don't care about John, in the sense of the word that you imply;
I don't know whether I ever could or not. I can't tell; maybe, if he
really loved me, and tried awfully hard to make me love him, well, I
don't know, I'm sure. But one thing I am sure of, I don't care anything
about him now, only as a friend. Why?"
"Oh, I just wanted to know, dear; for I believe I could love him better
than any man on earth, if he would let me."
"Well, my dear, just you go on loving him, for I am sure he loves you,
and I hope you will be happy with him."
It would not be the truth to say that dignified Dian felt no inner pang
of jealousy as she uttered these generous sentiments. There stirred in
her heart a very indistinct wish to know the exact condition of her
friend John Stevens' affections. Curiosity in a woman is not always a
common thing, but if once roused, it is apt to be a very strong motive.
* * * * *
That night there rode into Provo the Governor of Utah, accompanied by a
strong posse of Utah militia. He had come to expostulate with Brigham
Young, and to induce him to return to Salt Lake City. John Stevens was
on his way from the evening frolic to the President's home, to take up
his guard duty, when he met the party just riding into town. Governor
Cumming hailed John with hearty friendship.
"Captain Stevens, I am happy to see you here. Will you kindly inform
President Young that I wish to see him as soon as possible?"
John at once complied with this somewhat hurried and informal request,
and was on hand at the conference which, late as was the hour, proved
not very long, but certainly full of interest.
The anxious and wearied Governor laid before the "Mormon" leader
all the conditions through which the Territory had just passed; he
rehearsed in no measured terms his contempt for the actions of some
of the Federal authorities; he assured the "Mormon" leaders that
Gen. Johnston, who was now safely camped in the Cedar Valley, would
do all in his power to bring about peace and harmony in the unhappy
and distracted Territory. He told Brigham Young of the furore that
the Southern Move, made by the whole population of Utah, had created
in the East and in Europe. He laid before that leader of a hunted
band of religionists copies of the "New York Times" and the "London
Times," which contained bitter comments on this political blunder of
the President of the United States. In closing his speech, he gave
utterance to a manly appeal to Brigham Young to accept his pledges of
security, and at once to take up his return march for Great Salt Lake
City, saying:
"There is no longer any danger, sir. General Johnston and the army will
keep faith with the 'Mormons.' Every one concerned with this happy
settlement will keep faith and hold sacred the pardon and amnesty of
the President of the United States. By---, sir, yes."
"We know all about it, Governor. Our memories are long. But we feel
assured of your own integrity in this matter, and for that we grant you
our fullest confidence and friendship."
"Then, sir," said the kindly-disposed official, "tomorrow, being the
birthday of our glorious country, the Fourth of July, I shall publish a
proclamation to the 'Mormons' for them to return to their homes."
"Do as you please, Governor Cumming," replied Brigham Young, with his
quiet, shrewd smile. "Tomorrow I shall get upon the tongue of my wagon,
and tell the people that I am going home, and that they can do as they
please."
And it was so. The next morning in the cool daybreak, the leader of
the hosts of that modern Israel stood upon his wagon seat, and in the
clarion tones so familiar to his people, he called:
"To your tents, O Israel!"
And once more, but this time with paeans of mingled sorrow and
rejoicing and songs of praise not unmixed with anxious future
forebodings, the people prepared to take up the line of march backward
to the deserted homes, to the grass-grown streets of Salt Lake City and
to the sun-dried farms and fields of the northern Valley. The Southern
Move was passing into the annals of a deeply engraved history.