Three weeks after the ball in the Social Hall, the two girls were at
a rag-bee at Aunt Clara Tyler's. There was the usual light gossip,
and jolly laughter, and as was always the case at Aunt Clara's home,
everybody felt unusually kind and pleasant. Aunt Clara had the faculty
of making everybody feel desirous of doing and saying the best that was
in them.
"Did you hear that Tom Allen and his girl are to be married at last?"
asked Sister Hattie Jones, who was busily threading her needle.
"You don't mean it?" answered Rachel Winthrop. "I really thought he was
going to 'play off' on her and marry Ellie."
"I don't know how you could think that, Aunt Rachel," said Ellen, a
trifle sharply; "I have never had the least notion of trying to cut
Luna out, and my friendship for Tom was of the most platonic nature, I
assure you."
Mrs. Jones saw she had made a mistake, and to cover her confusion, she
began on another subject.
"Our Mark says that these soldiers are getting pretty impudent around
here. He says he has seen an officer riding around this ward in a
sleigh every night for the last three weeks. And he says, too, that
this stranger had one of our girls with him, for he saw her get out one
night, and he declares it is one of the girls in our ward. But he won't
tell who; he is going to get a better look at the girl, he says, before
he tells anyone who it is. I declare I don't see what our silly girls
are thinking of, to run around with these soldiers, who will ruin them
as quick as a wink, and then if they felt like it, they would shoot 'em
besides."
Diantha looked in quick surprise at Ellen, the moment this story began,
and she saw with infinite alarm the sudden flush which spread over her
friend's usually pale cheek; and with the quick intuition of love, she
divined that Ellen was the guilty girl. What on earth could she do?
The talk drifted on and on, and Diantha listened and kept her intent,
loving gaze fixed upon the drooping eyes of her beloved friend. The two
girls cleaned up the supper dishes. Ellen talked with rapid garrulity,
as if to prevent a single word being said by her companion. At last,
when bedtime came, Diantha said, as calmly and as indifferently as she
could:
"I believe I'll stay all night with you, Ellie darling, for Aunt Clara
is going out again tonight, she says, to nurse the sick; she has to go
out so much, doesn't she? But what would we do without Aunt Clara? She
is a whole Relief Society of herself, isn't she? You and I haven't had
a good talk since Christmas."
"Well, all right. But," the girl added hesitatingly, "I'm afraid we'll
have to sleep three in a bed, for Aunt Clara has sent Cousin Alice to
sleep with me tonight."
"Never mind," cheerfully responded Diantha, resolved not to be balked
in her endeavor to know more about her friend's walks and ways; "I can
easily do that, for I often have extra company, and you and I don't
mind crowding a bit."
The girls hurried up to their room, soon after the evening prayers
were over, and Diantha looked in vain for a third bedfellow. But
she refrained from asking where the invisible Alice was, for she
instinctively felt that Ellen had lied to her to make an excuse to
prevent the talk Diantha had resolved to have with her friend. Dian was
a wise girl, and she felt instinctively that it would not be prudent
to urge herself upon her friend's confidence. So she chatted on other
topics, and they were soon undressed and in bed. For some reason,
Dian felt unusually wakeful, and she lay for a long time awake, with
a curious feeling, a sort of expectancy of something, or somebody,
which made the chills of uncomfortable fear race up and down her back.
But at last she fell asleep, trying dimly to account for her strange
sensations, and wondering vaguely who was coming. Sometime in the night
she awoke, half-startled, and in a moment she was conscious, wide
awake, and in perfect control of her faculties. It was the complete
instant wakefulness which comes to mothers with sick children, or
to men who watch their homes and loved ones in times of danger! She
wondered for one brief instant why she was not in her own room, and
then it flashed over her. She reached out her hand, and although she
was in some way curiously prepared for it, she found her companion not
at her side, and she felt all the shock of surprised dread which that
discovery would necessarily entail. She lay still a moment, trying to
persuade herself that Ellen had gone down stairs for a drink, or that
she had gone into Aunt Clara's room, for some purpose, and at last she
called out softly:
"Ellie, Ellie, dear!"
No answer came, and she was about to get up and find a light, when she
heard the front door open, and directly after, the sound of hurried,
muffled footsteps running up the stairs to her room, and she knew
instinctively who it was.
"Ellen?" she said at once, as soon as the door opened.
"Yes," came the breathless answer, from out the darkness.
"Where have you been?" was Dian's rather stern question.
"Down stairs after some oil. I have a sore throat."
That was the second lie her friend had told her that night. Dian
knew it would be useless to try to learn anything further, for more
questions would only bring more lies, and she dreaded to hear another.
It hurt her that her beloved Ellen should feel it possible to tell lies
to anyone or for any purpose.
Dian could hear in the darkness the swift motions of the girl unrobing,
and she rashly tried another question:
"What on earth did you dress for, Ellie, just to go down stairs after
oil?"
"Would you like to run all over the house such a bitter cold night as
this without any clothes on?" sharply asked Ellen.
Dian lay still after that, realizing how hopeless it was to think of
probing the confidence of the girl she had driven away from her by her
abstractions and neglect.
Dian's thoughts were bitter and remorseful. She could see now how
at times she had paid little attention to the affectionate girl by
her side, and how often she had allowed their confidences to remain
unspoken when she herself was absorbed in some more congenial pursuit.
She saw, too, her own thoughtless selfishness--was it selfishness? Dian
was loath to admit that it was selfishness on her part which had driven
Ellen to seek for friendship and confidence where it was given more
freely. Was she, Dian, really selfish? Or was she just self-absorbed?
And which was which? Whichever it might be, Dian felt she could never
again be so self-centered. She must think of others more, and of her
own life less. As to who had gained this confidence, even Dian dared
not think. Neither of the girls could sleep, both were too agitated for
repose. But neither felt to break the strained silence between them.
"I heard today at the rag-bee, Ellen," said Dian at last, gently, "that
John Stevens was coming home from that trip into the north country. If
he is here tomorrow night, we will have him over to our house, and have
a candy-pulling."
"You'd better have him all to yourself, Diantha, for that will please
both of you, and I guess it will hurt nobody else."
Ellen spoke in so low and bitter a tone, that Dian felt unable to say
anything more until she had fathomed the reason for such anger.
"What has John, or what have I done that you should speak like that,
Ellie?"
"Done? Done nothing, I guess!" still bitterly. "But it didn't take any
smartness or particular discernment to see what was going on between
you two at the Christmas ball. I can see as far through a mill-stone as
anyone else, as your sister-in-law Rachel says."
Diantha was silenced.
What could it mean; Ellen Tyler sarcastic, bitter, and deceitful? What
did it all mean? Diantha lay quite still, but she could not sleep. Her
past life and her own faults came before her with startling vividness
and she felt that in some respects she had been a sorry failure. She
hated herself for all the thoughtless disregard for other people's
feelings which had at times hurt her best friends. And she knew, too,
that within herself there lay a wealth of devoted self-sacrifice at the
roots of her soul. Life was at last assuming an impersonal attitude to
this awakening heart.
What about Ellen? One thing Dian knew, and that was that Ellen had
really liked John Stevens, and what did her bitter anger and her
sarcasm at herself mean? She concluded that Ellen was jealous of her.
Jealous! jealous of her, Diantha! What, then? What had she done to
make her jealous? To think that they two should be at loggerheads over
big, silent John Stevens! She herself had always openly declared that
she never could love a red-bearded man. Well, John's hair was fine and
wavy and it was rich brown, any one could see that. But his long silken
beard! As she thought about it, it really seemed to her to be not so
bad either. The heroes in the few novels and theaters she had read
and witnessed all had mustaches, silken mustaches. None of them were
pictured with long beards. That was for old men and farmers. However,
there was something harmonious in the long beard of the tall, silent
John Stevens. As she reached this point, the girl beside her sighed
a deep, heavy, heart-sad sigh, which struck Dian as very unusual,
especially with sunny Ellen Tyler.
What was Ellen sighing for? Oh, yes, she was jealous of her and John
Stevens. Well, what would she, Diantha, do about it? She resented the
suggestion which came into her mind, that she would show forth fruits
meet for repentance for all her past selfishness by now being supremely
unselfish, and giving up every hope of John Stevens. Then there flashed
into her mind the attentions which that wicked soldier had been paying
on the sly to Ellen; and now that she thought of it, why, of course
that was where Ellen had been that night. And that was the reason that
she herself had felt so strangely when she awoke. Ellen was in danger,
and the inspiration of the Spirit and her natural instinct had warned
her of her friend's danger. Ellen had been out with him! Now that she
was in possession of the whole fearful secret what should she do?
Another deep sigh by her side made Dian turn swiftly over, and putting
her arms around the girl, she drew her to her and as Ellen burst into
a fit of passionate weeping, Diantha stroked her hair and soothed her
without asking questions or attempting to pry into the confidence of
the sobbing girl. Diantha knew that forced confidence is neither full
nor satisfactory. Ellen sobbed herself to sleep, after which Diantha
did some very serious thinking. She made her decision at last, and then
with a deep sigh from her own heart, she fell into a broken, restless
sleep, which morning broke with a glad release.
What that resolve was, was shadowed forth in her next meeting with John
Stevens.