That was a busy month, and everybody in the neighborhood insisted on
doing something for the coming wedding.
John bought a lot not far from Aunt Clara's home, and although it had
only one log room on it for a house, he soon had a large front room
added to it, and he put up a small lean-to for kindlings and wood.
He did not propose, he said to himself, that his wife should have an
unnecessary step to walk, and with that same thought, he dug a new well
close to the kitchen door.
He put a good paling fence in front of the house, and promised himself
that he would very soon replace the brush fence on the south side of
the lot with a new one, to match the front.
How many times he peeped into the large front room, with its new, white
pine floor, and its huge fire-place, and wondered how he could wait
until the days were gone and Dian was there to fill every nook and
corner with radiance. He wished he had time to pull down the old part
and put up an adobe room, but that must needs wait for the future.
He planted, with patient care, several vines around the front "door
stoop," for he knew Dian loved flowers and green things. And with what
infinite pleasure at the last, he watched the putting down of carpets,
bright new rag ones, that Dian and her sister-in-law and other friends
had been busy getting made for the happy time of her wedding day.
She and Aunt Clara came a day or so before the wedding and cleaned
everything to spotless whiteness.
In the window Dian hung simple, unbleached muslin curtains with
crocheted edge, which she had spent many days in bleaching. But they
still retained enough of the original creamy tint to soften the
plastered walls of shining white. Under one window Dian set a small
pine table, painted red in imitation of mahogany, which held her three
only books, one her Bible, a beloved Book of Mormon, and a prized copy
of Shakespeare, which had in some way come into her possession. Under
the other window was a square box, which John had fitted with hinges
and a good lid, and Dian had stuffed the lid top with wool and then
covered it with a pretty piece of cotton print and had hung a valence
of the print around under the lid. This made a comfortable seat, and
that was necessary, as chairs were rare and expensive. Inside the
box-seat she had folded her modest store of linen.
Over the huge fireplace John had put a low, broad mantle, and Dian set
upon the shelf her precious clock, which was one of the few things
owned by her mother that she now possessed. On each side of the clock
were two brass candlesticks polished like gold, and filled with tall,
yellow tallow candles. Most precious of all prized treasures, John
had bought the small melodeon from Bishop Winthrop, who was now in
possession of a new organ for his music-loving family. John loved the
dear old melodeon, out of whose slender case his beloved young wife
would weave great color waves of sound and harmony; while to him alone
she would now sing "Kathleen, mavourneen, the day dawn is breaking!"
Ah, how he loved music and beauty and love! No one but God knew how he
loved them!
A few chairs, the old-fashioned bed in the corner, a box which they
called a trunk, and which had also an edged cover of white to hide its
plain look, and the modest room was furnished. John had filled in the
fire-place with spicy evergreens from the canyons, and he had searched
the hills for the last columbines, which stood on the mantle shelf,
their creamy whiteness falling into the bright color tone of the pretty
room.
As John stood within its sacred precincts the night before he was to
be married, he thought how the glorious presence of his beautiful
wife would make it a haven of rest and happiness. He walked into the
neat kitchen, and noted how carefully Dian had arranged their scanty,
pioneer store of dishes, three plates, three cups and saucers, three
bowls and a vegetable dish--all these had been placed up in brave show
against the board he had nailed at the back of the shelves. The small
cook-stove, called a "step stove," he was especially proud of, for it
was a great luxury in those days. It shone with a brilliant lustre, and
the few pots and pans belonging to it were hung upon the wall behind
the stove with housewifely precision. He bent his face over the flowers
in the kitchen windows, and whispered to himself that the delicate
pinks were like Dian's cheeks, and their perfume was her breath.
As he finished his survey, he turned into the front room, and kneeling
down, he offered, for the last time, his lonely evening prayer. He
prayed that God would make him gentle, and worthy of such happiness,
while he asked earnestly for the strength to love his religion well
enough to put God first, and wife and home after. But even as he
prayed, the voice of inspiration whispered in his soul, that wife and
home, if rightly understood, are religion, and God was pleased with the
man who could be worthy of them.