Diantha turned without another word to John, and, flying upstairs, she
was down in a moment, with a shawl thrown around her shoulders and head.
"Come," she said, breathlessly.
"Where are you going?"
"Over to Aunt Clara, to ask her what to do. My brother Appleton is
away, and Aunt Clara will know better than anyone else what to do."
They sped along in the cool, spring evening, not exchanging one word,
for both hearts were heavy with the weight of remorse. Each knew that
the word of inspiration had warned both that Ellen was on dangerous
ground, and each knew that the word had not been heeded to the extent
that it should have been.
"Oh, for one moment to undo the past," was the pitiful tale which each
heart was telling its silent listener.
Aunt Clara's face whitened with a pallor like their own when the whole
story had been told; but in spite of the sure feeling of catastrophe
which assailed all three, Aunt Clara was too wise to allow fear to
master her.
"Now, don't go to imagining that Ellen has run away because we can't
just now get trace of her. Everything will turn out all right. You
haven't half looked for her. She may have gone down with the Harpers
instead of the Meachams. Or, she may have gone out to the Chase Mill,
for you remember she did not see me the very last minute. She bade us
goodbye before we went to meeting, for she said she would not wait till
we got home, we always stay so long talking, and she wanted to get off.
No, the thing to do tonight is to find out if she is at the Chase Mill.
You see, if the Meachams have not gone, she may have found a chance to
go down to the mill over night, thinking she could go on with them in
the morning."
There was a very faint glimmering of hope in this suggestion, and
without saying anything further, it was arranged that John should get
permission from the President for a three days' absence from his duties
as night guardsman, and then he should come for both Aunt Clara and
Dian in his own light spring wagon with a cover, for Dian would not
listen to the others going without her. She felt so unhappy that she
could scarcely bear her own sorrow, and she would have followed them
on foot, so great was her anxiety to know the whole truth about her
beloved friend.
She sat with Aunt Clara, telling her, now that it was too late, all
the things that she knew and suspected of Ellen; of the night of the
Christmas ball and of her subsequent determination to give John up
entirely to Ellen; and of how Ellen had avoided her all winter, and
how she had not broken through her reserve, for she had thought it was
due to a little jealousy on Ellen's part on account of John. She also
told her of how skilfully Ellen had parried all her questions and all
attempts to draw her out the night they slept together; lastly she told
of their stormy interview the day before.
All this the girl told with streaming eyes, and broken, sobbing
breaths. Her self-reproach and agony were terrible, and Aunt Clara
wisely allowed the first flood of her grief to spend itself before
she interrupted or tried to calm the excited girl. At last, however,
the elder woman saw a chance to relieve in a measure the unnecessary
remorse, and she asked gently:
"Has Ellen ever told you she was in love with the soldier you speak of?"
"No, no indeed. The very last time we had a confidential talk, she said
almost in as many words that she would give anything in this world if
John Stevens would fall in love with her. But that was last winter,
and I have treated him as coldly as I possibly could ever since, for
Ellie's sake."
"Diantha, you are taking more of this on yourself than you have any
need to do; you have not helped Ellen to do wrong, and if you spoke
once to this wicked soldier, it was but for the once. Purity does not
consist in never being at fault, or knowing what temptation is, but
it is to resist that which on reflection we know to be wrong. Ellen
ought to understand this as well as you do, dear, for, oh, I have
tried to train her aright. I love her as my own life. I have spent
many an hour in trying to persuade her to avoid temptation. I know
the poor, dear girl is vain, and that makes her weak. She lacks the
strength which helps us to keep our own good opinion of ourselves. She
loves admiration and pleasure so well that, always, even as a child,
she would sacrifice anything else on earth for it." Poor Aunt Clara
was trying to drown her own self-reproaches with philosophy and moral
reflection.
"But oh, to think of Ellen gone away, and to such a horrible doom! It
is too awful," and again the girl broke into a sobbing fit. It was
Dian's first real grief, her first experience of life and its deepest
trials.
"Diantha, I can see where I have failed with my poor Ellie; I have
been so anxious to nurse and help to save the sick bodies of the poor
and destitute and to administer food and raiment to the needy, that I
have been at times forgetful and careless of the sick and needy soul of
my precious child, who is like the child of my own body. True, I did
not suspect anything of what you are now telling me. But this is not
wisdom. Let us not mourn over the past, but mend the future."
At that moment John drove up, and the three rode away in the late
evening darkness, to visit the Chase Mill, on the outskirts of the
city, and find out if Ellen had been there. Aunt Clara's surmise was
correct; Ellen had ridden down there, according to the old gentleman
who tended the mill, which lay just southeast of the city. Ellen came
there alone, he said, and asked for a drink of milk. She also took some
bread and butter, for she said she expected to be taken up either by
the Meachams or the Harpers, and she was going to spend two weeks in
Provo, visiting her many friends in that place.
"How did Ellen get here?" inquired John.
"She said she came down as far as the mill with Brother Sheets. She
stayed with me here about an hour, and then, seeing a dust outside
coming down the main road, she walked over there, carrying her bundle
of clothes, and waited for the teams. I was busy getting up the cows
and feeding the stock, and did not think any more about it for about
an hour, and when I looked out to the main road for her, she was gone.
I went right out, and happened to meet a team going south, and I asked
the driver if the Meachams or the Harpers had gone on that way a little
while before, and he said he thought the Harpers were just ahead of
him, as they drove out of the city about half an hour before he did.
So, of course, she has gone down to Prove. If you want to stay over
night, I will rig up some straw ticks, and make you as comfortable as I
can."
Aunt Clara could never feel satisfied to go back to the city without
learning something definite and sure about their missing girl; and so
it was decided to wait over night at the farm house, and to start very
early in the morning for Provo, and bring back their loved wanderer
with them on their return next day.