Three years is but a fleeting season to the mature, and is as a day
to the aged; but to youth three years stretch out with apparent
never-ending length. Three years of rapid history had been written
in Utah since that vivid day in the tops of the mountains when A. O.
Smoot, Porter Rockwell and Judson Stoddard had brought to the happy
camp the terrible news of the coming of Johnston's army. Three years!
Camp Floyd with its surging life, its frequent deaths, and its story
of blunder and pathos had passed into history. The site where it once
stood now lay desolate and burning beneath the hot summer sun. Weeds
covered the rude foundations of the adobe and tented homes, and only
the lonely prairie dog frequented the once busy streets. The soldiers
had departed to the East, secession having already begun to rear its
horrid shape, and only for the rich stores of a hundred rare comforts
which they had sold in their hurried departure for less than a song,
would anyone remember their unhappy visit.
Two years of peace and plenty had built up the village of the Great
Salt Lake into a modest inland city. The trees along the sidewalks
were heavy now with July verdure. The busy hum of industry throbbed in
even beats along the city's arteries. The blacksmith whistled at his
forge. The well-bucket creaked merrily in its frequent passage to the
cool waters beneath, and the children sang as they went to and fro to
school, or lingered in the shade of the cottonwood trees. It was the
evening before the Fourth of July, 1860, and the hands of maid and
matron were busy in swift preparation for such a celebration of local
peace and prosperity as had not been theirs for years.
"Have you noticed what a change there is in Dian, the last year?" said
Rachel Winthrop to Aunt Clara, as the two stood ironing in Aunt Clara's
cosy kitchen.
"How changed?" asked Aunt Clara.
"Oh, she's so much softer and sweeter to everybody, and she is really
making herself the friend of every poor girl in the ward. Why, I told
her brother the other day that Diantha looked like another girl; she is
so changed. She wants to do so much for me, and she is so good to the
children, and you know that is unlike what she used to be. She was not
unkind, only indifferent. She didn't show me much friendship, even if I
was her sister-in-law, for I think she thought herself a little better
and smarter than I. But she is mighty good to me now, and I love her a
thousand times better for it, although I always loved her and was proud
of her."
"I don't find Diantha is changed," answered Aunt Clara's gentle voice.
"Don't you think that it is only that some of her latent powers and
gifts are beginning to be developed? And then she has always been
a reserved young lady, and while never uncivil or haughty, she is
undemonstrative, and as young people are, concerned only with life as
it affected her."
"Ah, Aunt Clara, you are always thinking the best of everybody. You
never can see any fault in any one."
"Maybe I see the fault, but I see so much of the virtue mixed up with
it that it quite obscures the small defect. I often think the latent
possibilities, if once they are waked up in any soul, will lead us to
eternal perfection. It is only that some natures are never awakened;
but they go on and on, asleep in their inner souls, and only the body
is awake and alive."
"Well, I have proved that God will help even the weakest of us to
improve and get strong, if we will continually seek Him for help and
light. Of course, any one as strong as Diantha will naturally be mighty
good or pretty mean."
"Well, to me Diantha has always been one of the sweetest, strongest,
and purest of girls. She is somewhat impulsive, but she has such
admirable control of herself, people call it common-sense, that she
rarely does anything silly or even unwise. And whoever saw her mean
or small? She has had and still has faults, but they are like her own
self, never small or spiteful. She loves deeply when she does love. Out
of the fires of affliction, poor, proud motherless Diantha is rising
to a higher, purer and more consecrated life. The death of Ellen has
taught her to conform her life more to the standards of Christ and
less to the promptings of a self-centered heart. She will make a grand
woman, and a noble wife and mother."
"I don't know about the wife and mother. She is twenty-four now, and
she has refused at least a dozen good, true men. I think she is going
to be an old maid."
"Not she! She is waiting for a man as great, as noble and as
pure-minded as herself. A great many men, as well as a great many
women, are virtuous in action because they fear society or God's
punishment. But Dian is pure in every thought and every act. Nothing
low or vile could so much as reach her outer personality. She is
well-educated and as intelligent as a girl of her age could well be.
Why should she not demand that same exalted standard in her husband?"
"Oh, well, I guess she will go through the woods and pick up with
a crooked stick at last, as mother used to tell us girls. Lots of
our finest girls marry men who, while good enough, are inferior to
themselves. I often wonder what they do it for?"
"God has some life lesson for them to learn. The Bishop says that's
the way Nature evens up things. What you say is true oftentimes, but
I am not going to have it so of our Dian. The voice of the Spirit has
manifested to me many times that she will have a man as great and as
gifted as herself."
"Say, talking of Dian's beaus, they say John Stevens will be home
sometime this week from his mission to Europe. He has been away ever
since Ellen's death. I thought at one time he liked our Dian, but I
guess it was Ellen. He has taken her death very much to heart."
"John can love more than once, if he finds the right kind of a woman.
He has a soul as big as all eternity. But he grieves as deeply as he
loves."
Aunt Clara was not surprised, therefore, several evenings after this
conversation, to see John Stevens step under her doorway; his tall head
reaching nearly to her doorpost.
"I knew you would come to see me first thing, John, and I am glad you
did. It does me so much good to see you." And she greeted him warmly.
John sat down, his eyes somewhat weary with long nights of wakefulness,
for he was captain of the company of emigrants, and his limbs were worn
with much travel across the seas and plains.
"I knew you would have some fried cakes and milk for me when I did
come, Aunt Clara. I wonder if I came for fried cakes?" and he laughed
in his low, soft undertone, as he held up one of the nutty brown, crisp
cakes to admire its homely charm before he tested it further.
"You have come, John, to tell me all about your mission, and I want you
to tell me something more. Rachel Winthrop was in here this afternoon,
and we got to talking about our poor Ellen. She made a remark about
your grieving over Ellen, and it struck me, too, that you have been
grieving these two long years. I don't want you to do that, for Ellie
is all right now, she has paid the penalty with her life. Now, John,
that you are home, you must find some good girl, and marry and settle
down. You must be nearing thirty, and it is very unusual for our young
men to live so long single."
John had pushed away his plate, and left all its homely charm, for Aunt
Clara's words had choked him with crowding memories. He sat still for
some time, with his head in his hands. Aunt Clara watched him as she
rocked back and forth, and wondered if she had for once been at fault.
After a time, however, he raised his head and said, with an effort at
lightness:
"I am not much of a fellow, Aunt Clara. Sometimes I do feel a bit
lonely, and although I have enjoyed my mission, the thought of my
homecoming has been a lonely one, except for you, Aunt Clara."
"Well, of course you are lonesome, John, and that's why I want you,
now that you are home from your mission, to get married, and have some
comfort in life."
His head was drooped again, between his hands, and he said slowly:
"Aunt Clara, I have been a selfish one-idea fellow in my life. I
deserve all your reproach and my own loneliness."
"Now, John, I want you to tell me just what you mean. You have
something in your mind which needs airing. What is it?"
"I mean that from my earliest youth I have loved, with all the strength
of my heart, a girl who never has and never will, I fear, care anything
for me. For some years I felt that I could win her, through prayer and
faith, and I hoped and was happy. But I did not succeed. I have tried
to hide my feelings, though, and I don't think anyone has suspected me,
unless it was the girl herself, occasionally."
"John, there is a belongingness in love as in life. We are not married
by chance. I firmly believe that each has made covenant with his mate
in the life before this. If that girl belongs to you, you will get her.
If not, you don't want her. Who is it?"
"It is Dian."
He spoke with an effort, as if it were painful thus to speak her name.
"Oh!" Aunt Clara was not much surprised.
"What about Ellie?" she asked.
"I loved Ellen, but it was not as I love Dian. Maybe I have so set my
heart all my life upon getting Dian that I did not give myself a chance
to see other girls. Aunt Clara, forget that I have ever said what I am
about to say; but I had a feeling that Ellen liked me. And I have felt
all the remorse natural that I did not save her while I could."
"We can always see where we could do better, even in small things. But
no one need destroy all hopes of eternity because love is not returned
or because a loved one dies. This love plays such mischief, when it is
not understood and governed!"
"Just so. I have failed to conquer my love, and it leaves me sore with
defeat."
"Why should you conquer your love? Have you ever asked Dian to have
you? Diantha is a noble girl; she is always so strong, so sweet, and so
good."
"Don't I know it?" almost groaned John, as he pressed his hands across
his eyes.
"Look here, John, I don't believe for one moment that God would let as
prayerful a man as you waste years of your life upon a useless love.
How do you know that Dian does not love you as well as you love her?
Oh, mated love is such blissful, such divine joy!"
John shook his head, slowly.
"I don't want to think, John Stevens, that you are a coward. Go to that
girl, and tell her what you feel, and trust God for the result. See
here: You go into the front room, and I will bring Diantha over in two
minutes. I will tell her you are in there, and if she wants to see you
she will go in of her own accord. If she does not want to see you she
can easily refuse to go in, and then I hope you will give her up and
put your mind off the subject at once and forever."
Aunt Clara slipped out as she said the last words, and John waited for
some time in moody, unhopeful silence, until he heard the two voices as
they came into the yard. He sprang up, and put himself into the dark
front room, its shadows only lifted here and there by the moonlight
through the window casing.
Through the open door he saw Dian come in, her face aglow with a merry
smile with which she listened to Aunt Clara's soft tones. Her white
teeth gleamed like even pearls, and her red lips parted over them in
the well-remembered bewitching ripples of laughter. Her bright eyes
were wide and uplifted with clearest radiance. His eager eyes noted
the gleam of her yellow hair, parted above the wide, white brows,
and then lingered on the rich rose upon her cheek, and lighted upon
the full, round chin, which he said to himself was like a cleft rose
bud. The tender white throat rose up from her proud shoulders with a
wondrous grace, and her soft and rounded arms were white under the soft
muslin sleeve. She stood a moment unconscious of any gaze or presence,
other than Aunt Clara's, and he wondered with a silent agony what
expression would sweep over her expressive face when Aunt Clara made
her disclosure.
"Diantha, John Stevens came home today."
The cheeks were drained of all their beautiful color, but the girl's
voice was steady as she said simply, "Did he?"
"Yes; and he has been here to see me."
"Oh!"
John did not see the tense clasp of the fingers, he saw only the calm
quiet of her face. Was it the quiet of displeasure?
He felt guilty, thus to watch her unconscious betrayal of self, but he
told himself savagely that a man has a right to see the face of his
executioner.
"John would like to see you, Dian." Aunt Clara waited a moment, then
she said quietly: "He is in the front room. If you would like to see
him, go in there and have a talk with him."
The girl stood a moment, with her tightly clasped hands, and her
hesitation seemed like a year of suspense to the heart watching her
from the other room, and then, with a little, half-troubled smile upon
her lips at Aunt Clara, the girl glided into the other room, and,
sheltered as well as blinded by its partial shadows, she closed the
door behind her. She was so near the man that her muslin sleeve rested
upon his arm.
He felt suffocated with that blissful touch, and he stood, silent,
wordless, as if deprived of the powers of speech. She, too, felt his
nearness, although she could see nothing, and she stood uncertain which
way to go. Then she threw up her hand as if to shield herself, and
she touched his cold cheek, and felt the silken mustache beneath her
fingers. He snatched her hand and held it to his lips, its warmth and
purity stilling, for a moment, the trembling of his soul. At last he
took it away, and putting it upon his face, rested his cheek within its
sweet cup, as if thus all sorrow were done forever. She stood silent,
waiting, and as voiceless as himself.
This unbroken, sweet encouragement was almost more than he could bear;
he was so unprepared for it, and it had all come so suddenly. After a
moment, he reached out, and finding her so near, he laid his arm about
her waist, and as she said nothing, he drew her to him with a close,
tender embrace, and laying his own face down upon the soft hair, he
held her to his throbbing heart in speechless bliss.
Neither knew how long they stood thus, so perfect was their peace. At
last, he drew her face up to him, and whispered in her ear so close
that his breath stirred all the tiny curls around her neck:
"Is it love, dear, or sympathy?"
For answer, she laughed softly, and putting her arms around his neck of
her own accord, she murmured:
"It is my love, my life, John."
Words were too weak; he drew her face upon his shoulder, and in the
shadowy silence, he put his big, rough hand under her rounded chin,
and thus drawing up her mouth to his own bent lips, he told her with
that long, wordless caress all the pent-up story of his life and its
passion. He drew her to the casement, and in the flood of moonlight
pouring in, he stood away for a moment and looked at her with his
hungry eyes, as if he must make sure if she were real. He gloried in
her beauty, for he loved all things beautiful and perfect of their
kind; and he noted each gracious charm of face and form as he pinioned
her arms down that he might hold her from fleeing away from his loving
possession.
"So strong, so sweet, so pure," he murmured under his breath; "and all
mine, mine for time and the long eternity!"
She laughed again, a little, happy, yet modest laugh, as she saw the
gleam of adoration which lit her lover's eyes as he gazed down upon
her in the moonlight, and then she struggled to free herself, as she
remonstrated softly:
"You are not to hold me at arm's length, sir."
For answer, he caught her to him, and with his lips upon hers, he vowed
to hold her in his heart of hearts forever and forever.
Presently, after what seemed to them a few moments of silence and sweet
peace, Diantha lifted her head from his breast, and said:
"Come, John, Aunt Clara will wonder at our being in here without
alight. Come, let us go out and thank her."
"Wait one moment, my girl." But she insisted, and together they opened
the door, and stood with modest assertion of their love before their
dearest friend.
John held his arm around the girl, as if fearing she might change her
mind when once in the light, and observed by other eyes.
"This John of mine is a queer John, Aunt Clara," said Diantha, merrily,
her breath quick with the joy of her expressed ownership in the big
fellow beside her; "he seems to think, because I am glad to see him,
that he can domineer over me, and he has kept me in there nearly half
an hour, simply to tell him that I am glad he has got home."
"Half an hour?" asked Aunt Clara, dryly; "you two have shut yourselves
up in there for over two hours. It's after ten o'clock."
"Why, John Stevens, I am ashamed of you," said the girl, with sparkling
eyes and soft laughter.
"A man has a right to say how-do-you-do to his wife, hasn't he?" he
said, gravely.
"Oh, John, how could you?" breathed the girl; "how dare you speak so?
You haven't asked me yet."
"We will be married, Aunt Clara, and, please God, one month from today."
"Oh, you John! What impudence! Aunt Clara, did you ever see anything
like it? Here he has never courted me one bit in his life, and never
even asked me to marry him, and now he takes the law into his own hands
in that way!"
John drew her closer to his side, with his encircling arm, and looking
down into her eyes, he said:
"Dear girl, I have been courting you in spirit all my life. Let me have
my own way now, will you not?"
His tone was so gentle, so tender, that she answered softly, yet still
half-mischievously:
"Well, Aunt Clara, I guess we will have to let him have his way. He is
so big that he could crush us both if we didn't please him."
Aunt Clara's eyes were moist with tears, as she watched them. She
rejoiced in their love, and she was content that she had helped a
little. But as they started out of the door to leave her, and Diantha
came back to kiss her once more in token of love and gratitude,
Aunt Clara's heart flew back to their lost Ellie, and all the sad,
miserable story. She went to the door and watched them go out of the
gate, Diantha still full of bubbling mischief, with her quick, pretty
gestures of teasing indifference as she refused even to take John's
arm in the bright moonlight--it all brought back her Ellie's love for
this same good man, and she turned back into her room with sobs in her
throat; and then she knelt in silent prayer for these two who had gone
out from her home to their blessed future.
As Diantha Winthrop herself knelt that night in her evening prayer,
she poured out the wealth of her young heart in gratitude to God who
had so magnified her life and its mission. After her prayer, she sat
at her window and thought back on all the past, and she wondered anew
that she could ever have called her lover cold, reserved or silent.
His every look was pregnant with thought, and his presence was full
of unspoken meanings. She could see how in her ignorant, thoughtless
girlhood she could not appreciate him, as she could not appreciate the
deep throbbing poems in the Bible until life opened them and sorrow put
into her hand the secret key to their mysteries.
She had grown up to John now, and she wondered how it was that she
could ever have permitted ordinary men to come near her. He was a king!
Proud, intelligent, pure! With the wide-open eyes of experience, she
recognized his matchless manhood and bowed down in mighty prayer that
she might prove worthy of his love.