What conflicting emotions swayed that little party of three as they
rode rapidly along the next day towards the town of Provo!
Diantha had chosen to sit by John on the front seat, both to
accommodate Aunt Clara, who was stout, and to comfort her own miserable
heart, by resting on his great, fortress-like personality. She was too
weak just now to stand alone, as she had done all her life. She was
discovering that she was a true woman, and she needed someone to lean
on in her hour of woe.
"John," she said, "do you remember when we came home last year from
Provo, how we met those soldiers, almost here it was?" and then that
brought up the thought all were trying to put away, and Aunt Clara
interrupted:
"I wonder where the folks stayed all night! They couldn't drive clear
through to Provo after meeting was out yesterday afternoon. We didn't
think to inquire at Dr. Dunyon's at the point of the mountain, if they
stayed there over night."
"I will ask at the Bishop's as we pass through Lehi, if he saw the
Harpers on the road today."
Accordingly, they drove to the Bishop's, in Lehi, and he told them he
had seen the Harpers driving along early that morning, but they did not
stop over in the settlement.
"Did you notice if they had two or three girls with them? They had a
grown daughter of their own, and Ellen Tyler came down with them. I was
wondering if she sat on the front seat."
This was said as indifferently as it was possible, for John did not
want to arouse unnecessary suspicion or cause unnecessary talk.
"Well, I can't say that I noticed. They had the wagon cover tied up
at the sides, and there were women or girls inside, for I heard them
laughing and singing as they passed by our fence."
This was cheering, and John consented, although somewhat reluctantly,
to accept the Bishop's kindly invitation to stop and have some dinner,
for he realized the women ought to eat, even if it were impossible for
him to do so. It took some time for the worthy Bishop's wife to cook
dinner, and she was very anxious to get the best she had, for John
Stevens was an old friend, and he had done them many a good turn. Good
as the dinner was, no one seemed able to eat much, although John drank
some of the rich, cold milk which the Bishop's wife brought up from the
springhouse.
It was past three o'clock when they left Lehi, and there were twenty
miles to drive to Provo. But John's team was a fine one, and at seven
o'clock in the evening, just at the early spring dusk, as they neared
the edge of the bench overlooking Provo, they all strained with hungry,
eager eyes at the little town stretched along the river bottoms, and
each hoped and tried to believe that the object of their search was
sheltered beneath one of those low, friendly roofs.
Diantha told herself that when she got hold of Ellen she would squeeze
her and pet her until she would never need the love of another person.
She would never leave her side again, for she would either forsake her
own home to live with Ellen, or she would coax Aunt Clara to let Ellen
live with her. And oh, what would she not do to make Ellen happy! She
remembered that Ellen did not like to make beds, or wash dishes. Well,
she would never have that to do again, for she would take all that work
off Ellen's slender hands. She did not mind it, and Ellen should never
have to do anything she disliked again.
On the other hand, the more experienced head of Aunt Clara was
cogitating about the possible future when they found and brought
the dear wanderer home, and she decided that Ellen must take up and
faithfully perform some of the disagreeable things which all her
life she had slighted and slipped over. She felt that perhaps she,
herself, had favored Ellen too much, in that she had allowed her to
please herself always, and that too, often at the expense of the
comfort and rights of others. She saw now that what Ellen needed was
not less affection, but more discipline, to learn that happiness does
not consist in gratification of one's own wishes and desires, but in
the cheerful sacrifice of self for the good and comfort of others. She
realized now that her Ellen had that inner selfishness clothed with an
outer lavish extravagance which deceives and entices the best of casual
friends. Ellen would give up anything but her own vain pleasures. Aunt
Clara had become so accustomed to sacrificing herself for those around
her, that she began to fear lest she had thus deprived others of that
chastening discipline. She resolved again and again that she would take
up another line of action with her loved child, who was as dear as if
she had been her own offspring.
John's thoughts were too deep to be discernible from his composed yet
pale face, and he said nothing, unless questioned by the others, but
guided his team with a firm yet gentle hand.
The low door of the Harpers' home opened at John's knock, and the girl
Jenny, herself, opened it.
"Ellie Tyler? Oh, no, we haven't seen her. She said Saturday in meeting
that she might come down with us, or she would come with the Meachams,
and she has promised to spend one week with me. I guess she is on the
road with the Meachams."
John knew better than that, but he would not set tongues to wagging,
and so he said again, in his quiet, yet now wily way:
"Did you see that officer from Camp Floyd as you drove out of the city
last night? I understand he has been attending our meetings. I wonder
if any of those soldiers are really interested in our Church?"
The girl caught eagerly at the bait he had so skilfully flung.
"Oh, yes, I saw him. He had a spanking team, and he passed us just
before we got to Chase's mill. He was alone, though, and if he was at
meeting yesterday I didn't see him. But I believe he was there Saturday
with some more soldiers."
John had caught the door post as she spoke, and he leaned against
his arm heavily, as he said, huskily, still determined to avoid all
unnecessary talk:
"We are going to find Ellen, as there is to be a theater in the Social
Hall at the end of the week, and she is needed to take a small part. We
will find her all right; thank you."
John got out to the carriage, and in a husky voice he repeated what had
been told him, and he added:
"I am going to Bishop Miller's and get a fresh team and drive out to
Camp Floyd tonight. You can both stay at the Bishop's all night, and I
will arrange to have you driven home tomorrow."
"I shall not stay all night in Provo," said Diantha, harshly. "I will
walk if you will not take me, but I am going to Camp Floyd myself this
night."
"Get in, John," said Aunt Clara's quiet voice, "and drive on to the
Bishop's and get your team. We will sit out in the carriage, and
you needn't say to anyone that we are with you, for I am anxious as
yourself to keep people from talking. We are both going with you."
John was already driving heedlessly down the street, for he had neither
time nor words to waste.
Not a word was spoken, for miles, by the three who rode so rapidly
along the dusty, rough new road which stretched ghostlike along the
barren valley between the tiny settlements in Utah Valley, and the
distant encampment on the other side of the western hills.
As they flew along in the bright young moonlight, the swift light
clouds anon parted and then banked up again, thus alternately revealing
and concealing the scene about them; at each side of the road the
great bristling sagebrush which covered the plain rose up like a high,
rough hedge. Here and there a startled rabbit flew over the lower sage
bushes, losing himself in the faint moonlight and the distance. The
lake now lay before them, now behind them, like a dark, purple shadow,
its quiet ripples untouched by breeze, and unbroken by any current. The
dark mountains shut them in, and as they neared the western rim, it
seemed as if a wall of impenetrable gloom shut off further progress;
but a narrow defile led through the low hills, and on they sped.
In the near distance a coyote yelped in shrill hunger, or answered
his mate's warning cry from the distant foothills. The cool air grew
chill around them, and Aunt Clara drew her own shawl about her, and
threw upon Dian's unconscious shoulders the extra shawl she herself had
remembered to add to their hasty preparations.
As they neared the dusky group of tents in the outer village across
the stream from Camp Floyd even John was startled as a voice sang out
suddenly:
"Who goes there?"
John saw the gleam of a musket barrel as the sentinel stepped from
behind the cedar tree.
"A friend," John answered. "Harney's the word," and John thanked his
happy fate that he had by accident or inspiration hit upon the right
pass-word. The sentinel lowered the musket, and as he approached the
carriage, Diantha shrank with a nameless terror of the night and its
unknown perils close to John's side. Without a word, John put out
his arm, and drew her to him, as if to shield her from even the gaze
of wicked men; and thus he held her close while he parleyed with the
soldier.