 CHAPTER 40 of TELL IT ALL by Fanny Stenhouse. It was about this time that one morning very early, before I was well up, a young girl came to the house in a great hurry, asking to speak to me without a moment's delay. I threw a wrapper round me and went out at once to see her. She said she came from the house of Sister Mary Burton and begged me to come directly and see her, for Mary had taken poison and it was thought she was dying. Now I have been so much engaged of late in telling my own sorrows that Mary Burton has quite dropped out of my story, but it must not be supposed that all that time I saw nothing of my poor friend. On the contrary I had seen her much more frequently of late than I used to when I first came to Salt Lake City. When I last spoke of her it was when she was about to return to southern Utah where she and her husband then resided. It was evident to me from her conversation as it must have been to the reader that her faith in Mormonism had even then entirely gone, that she felt her husband's neglect and unkindness most keenly, and that she had become a miserable brokenhearted woman. It was very painful to contrast what she was now with what she had been when I first knew her, and then to think what a happy wife and mother she might have been if the specter of Mormonism had not crossed her path. Mary and her husband, Elder Shoesbury, left the settlements about a year after the time I last mentioned her, and took up their abode in Salt Lake City. Elder Shoesbury had prospered exceedingly, and when he came to Salt Lake he brought with him besides Mary, his second wife Ellen, who, as we before noticed, had become very much attached to her. The other three wives and their children were left at the farm in southern Utah. He would probably have brought them all with him had there been in the city a house large enough to hold them all. As it was he purchased a good lot about half a mile from where we resided, with a comfortable house upon it, and there his first and second wives lived together. This was the man who had solemnly sworn before God that he would never practice polygamy. But I doubt if Elder Shoesbury, with his comfortable house in the city, his farm and lands in the south, his vast increasing property, and his many wives, felt truly the hundredth part of the happiness which he would have experienced in the devotion of one faithful heart, even had it been in the midst of poverty and care. He, however, poor infatuated man, did not think thus, he was actually even now courting a young girl of about seventeen years of age, who the two wives daily expected would be brought home to aid in building up their husband's kingdom. I do not think Mary cared much about this. It was the taking of the first plural wife that was her great sorrow. After that her love for her husband weakened until it altogether died out, and she did not care how many wives he took. Mary's high spirit was always urging her into rebellion. In married life both husband and wife give way to each other in a thousand little things of no consequence in themselves, but quite sufficient, without the presence of love, to sow the seeds of discord. But when love has fled and the husband looks upon his wife, the companion of his youth, the mother of his children, not as the partner of his whole life, and the sharer of all his joys and sorrows, but as a person whose presence is a reproach to him, and who is an inconvenience rather than otherwise, and when the wife regards her husband as one whom formerly she loved with true devotion, but who has cruelly broken her heart and trampled upon her feelings, and who is nothing to her now but a tyrant whose very presence is painful to her, can there then be any forbearance, any of those gentle kindnesses, any of those loving forgivenesses, any of those mutual tendernesses and sweet confidences which constitute the charm of married life and make it what the Apostle said it was, a type of the sacred union between Christ and his people in heaven. In giving up Mormonism my unhappy friend gave up, as too many have done, faith in all else. She had lived as she thought a life of religion, and when she found what a terrible mockery of all that is holy that so-called religion was, she cast it aside thinking that all religion was vain. She did not see that she would have acted just as wisely in rejecting all food because she chanced to partake of some that was poisoned. She did not see that, although the broken read on which she rested was unable to yield her any true support, nevertheless the everlasting foundations of eternal truth which God himself has laid can never be removed, and that the creeds and systems may fail and pass away only to give place to others equally unsatisfactory. Yet those divine verities are established forever, are beyond the reach of earthly vicissitudes, and know nothing of time or change. Utterly miserable and sick at heart, Mary cared not whether she lived or died. There was nothing to bind her to life, and beyond the life of this world she was altogether without hope. A more wretched existence it is scarcely possible to imagine. While they were still in the settlements she treated the other wives with the greatest contempt, sitting by them at the table or passing them in the house without vouchsafing a look or a word. Her husband, as might be expected, avoided her whenever it was possible, and the other wives returned her coldness and disdain, and in turn annoyed her as much as they could when they were not too busy looking after one another. It would be impossible to picture a house more divided against itself than was that of Elder Shrewsbury. When the two wives, Ellen and Mary, lived together with their husband in Salt Lake City, Mary, of course, had no opportunity of showing her hatred and contempt for the polygamic wives, but towards her husband she evinced a cold disdain, as if he were now nothing at all to her, as if her very heart itself had been withered. For Ellen, who since Elder Shrewsbury had taken his other wives, had clung to her with a childlike affection, and to her own little girl alone she showed that deep and constant love which she had once lavished upon such an unworthy object. She used to come to me and tell me all her griefs, and in a passion of rage and tears she would hurl defiance at Mormonism and curse bitterly the system that had wrecked her life. Then I would soothe her and speak calmly to her, and try to place matters in their best light, and she would sit and listen in a painful state of apathy as if she cared for none of these things. Presently she would rise and go, and then perhaps I would not see her for weeks together unless I chanced to call upon her at her own house. Sometimes for days and even weeks at a time she would shut herself up in her room and refuse to see her husband or anyone else except her little girl who slept in the same room with her, and who at such times used to bring in what food they wanted, for in these melancholy fits she would not even let the servants come near her. There was a little table near the window, and from the casement of the window could be seen in the far distance the lofty ranges of the Wasatch Mountains. And sitting at that table, gazing from that window with her cheek resting upon her hand, Mary would watch the whole day long as if entranced in some ecstatic vision. Her little girl, a child of winning ways, bashful to an extreme and very pretty, but though so young with a look of wistful sadness upon her childish face, had become accustomed to her mother's ways, and when one of those long spells of melancholy came upon her she would either steal out quietly and wander away for a long walk all by herself, for she never played with the other children in her father's house, or else as was more frequently the case, she would sit down on the ground near her mother and silently amuse herself with a book or some childish toy. To my mind there was something inexpressibly painful in all this. When Mary did not come to see me I would call round at her husband's house and try to draw her out from her melancholy seclusion. It was very seldom that I saw Elder Shrewsbury and I cannot say that I wished to do so. He had, as his wife told me, undergone a complete change since I knew him in England. The open look, the upright bearing, the earnestness of speech which then characterized him, were now gone forever. He was still a handsome man, rather portly, and evidently well to do in the world, but there were lines about his eyes which ought not to have been seen in the face of a man of his years, and his lips without uttering a word told their own story. I could remember watching those lips rather full and voluptuous even then in the old days when polygamy was unknown, and Mormonism came upon us all in its freshness and stirred our very souls to their utmost depths. Then they seemed instinct with a thought and intellect of the man, and their very expression conveyed a meaning almost as eloquent as the words which proceeded from them. Now they were listless and heavy, and if any expression hovered around them still, it was an expression of sensuality and selfishness. Was it, I sometimes asked myself, polygamy that ruined that man, or was there in his nature hidden, of course, in early days, that which led him to polygamy, and which, had there been no Mormonism, would have developed itself in some other degrading way? But broken and wretched, weary of life, and yet no hopeful assurance of life beyond the grave, poor Mary lived on year after year, while those who seemed to dance in the very sunshine of existence were cut off like the summer flowers in the harvest field. Lately, however, I thought I saw symptoms of a change. The pitcher may be taken off into the fountain, but it will be broken at last, and this poor, weak body of ours, wonderful as its powers of endurance are, cannot last forever. With a mind at ease and happy we can bid defiance to many of the ills which flesh is heir to, but when the mind is troubled, and the heart is weary, and the flesh also is weak, the thread of life is ready at any moment to be snapped asunder. I saw this clearly in the case of my poor friend. Every time she came to see me, or I called at her house, I noticed that she was perceptibly growing thinner and thinner. Her eye seemed brighter, and there was always a flush upon her cheek, which would have been beautiful had it not been for the seal of melancholy which was stamped upon every feature. But the brightness of the eye and the flush upon the cheek were not symbols of health, but the imprint of the finger of death. She did not know this, though she longed to die, she little thought that death was so near her. Sometimes she would talk almost happily of the old bygones. Then she would sit brooding over her griefs, and then again she would talk anxiously about the future of her little daughter. I had seen other wives as wretched as poor Mary was, I more so, for they had abject grinding poverty super-added to all their woes. But more than for any other I felt for my poor friend, and exerted myself to the uttermost to comfort her. In this I had been to a certain extent successful. She would appear for a time a little more cheerful, but it was not long before she relapsed into her habitual melancholy way. That which troubled me most of late in my intercourse with Mary was the fact that she was always talking about death. This certainly was no matter of surprise to me, but it was very painful. Over and over again she would discuss the question, whether under any circumstances suicide could be justified, and whether if anyone, in absolute despair, were to take away their own life God would ever pardon them. I would never enter into such subjects as these, for I considered that such conversation showed a morbid condition of mind, could not possibly be of any good to either of us, and would only suggest harmful thoughts. But again and again Mary reverted to the subject, and I really at last began to grow quite anxious about her. It was not therefore with surprise that I received the summons that morning. I did not wait to ask any questions about the poisoning, but hastened to the bedside of my unfortunate friend, trusting that I might yet be in time to render some assistance. I found her lying on the bed, partly dressed, and as it seemed to me at first, asleep. There was at the bedside, and bending over her, the second wife, who was in as much trouble as if the sufferer had been her own sister. The poor girl had been weeping and was evidently very much distressed. There was also present in the room another sister whom I recognized as a friend of Mary's. The little daughter of the unfortunate woman was there as well. One person whom everyone would naturally have expected to see at the bedside of a dying wife under such circumstances was conspicuous by his absence. I mean, of course, Elder Shrewsbury himself. I sat down on the bed beside poor Mary and took her hand in mine. It was cold, but damp, and her breathing was somewhat heavy. She was still unconscious. I asked the pretty, pale-faced girl, the second wife, who was bending over her, how it had all happened, and whether they had had a doctor. Oh, yes, she said, sobbing all the time. We went for the doctor, and he has only just gone. He said he had done all he could, and that we could let her sleep on now. She then told me what had taken place. It appeared that the night before Elder Shrewsbury had gone up into Mary's room to speak to her about a matter of some importance. Although living in the same house, she had not seen him for several weeks, and the mere fact of being in his presence agitated her. He told her he had come to talk to her about her child, little Mary, called Mary after her mother. For some reason or other, which nobody then seemed to understand, Elder Shrewsbury had taken a fancy that the child should be separated from her mother. He wanted to send her to stay with his other family in the settlements, and it was for this purpose he came to see Mary that night. It certainly did seem the refinement of cruelty to separate the child from her poor mother, who would thus have become, as one might say, doubly widowed. And I am strongly inclined to question whether Elder Shrewsbury's motives were of the purest kind. It is, however, only just to state that subsequently, when speaking to a friend about the matter, he said that he had long noticed in his wife what he considered were incipient symptoms of madness, and he thought that his duty towards the child imperatively demanded that he should immediately take her away from her mother. He added, as was indeed true, that his other wives in the south would have taken the greatest care of her. Mary was furious when the proposal was made to her. She bitterly upgraded her husband for all his cruelty and neglect. She cursed him for his perfidy, and she vowed that nothing but death should separate her from her little girl. Elder Shrewsbury trembled at the anger of his poor, forsaken wife, and he crept out of her room and downstairs. But Mary could not be appeased. She went to the room of the second wife, the only creature in the house, besides her little girl, with whom she sometimes condescended to hold intercourse, and there she acted in a very wild and extravagant way. It was with great difficulty that she was at last persuaded to lie down and take a little rest. She would not go to her own room, so Ellen, the second wife, persuaded her to remain with her all the night. She lay down but did not sleep. She muttered strange things, and by and by set up in the bed, and spoke as if people were present whom she had known years and years ago. Ellen was frightened, but out of love to Mary, and not wishing that others should see her in that crazy condition, she did not call for help, thinking that presently she would fall asleep, and in the morning all would be right. But the long night passed away, and just before daybreak Ellen fell into a sort of fitful slumber. It would seem that just then poor Mary discovered for the first time that she was not sleeping in her own room, and that her little daughter was not with her. Distracted as her mind was, she probably thought that they had stolen the child away, and went in search of her. She found her way to her own room, and then what happened, no one, of course, could tell. She must have seen that her child was safe, and it is not unlikely that, reassured on that point, she felt that she needed rest, and thought that it would be best to take some sedative to produce the sleep which she believed would restore her to herself again. She had in her room a little leather medicine chest, a very useful article for anyone traveling, or to keep in the house, and to that she must have had resort. Certain it is that, when an hour later Ellen awoke, and went to see what had become of her husband's first wife, she found the little medicine chest open upon the bureau, Mary lying upon the bed, apparently asleep, and with the faint sickly smell which one better versed in such things would have known was the smell of opium, pervading the whole room. Ellen began to scream and call for help, and one of the women about the house, who was up at that early hour, came to see what was the matter. She, upon hearing what Ellen said, rushed downstairs, shrieking for assistance. Fortunately for everyone, Elder Shrewsbury, who had just risen, was standing in the hallway below. He took hold of the noisy woman and asked her what was the matter, and after hearing all she had to say, he sent her to attend to her domestic duties, with a strict injunction to say nothing to a living soul about what she had seen or heard. Elder Shrewsbury then went up to Mary's room, and there he learned that all that the silly woman had just said to him was quite true. He, however, betrayed no emotion. Very calmly he put the stopper back into the ladenum bottle, then looked at his watch and hesitated. All the while that pale-faced Ellen was looking anxiously at him, wanting to know what she could do. After a few moments of indecision, Elder Shrewsbury turned to Ellen and said, yes, go for the doctor. Ellen flew upon her mission. Meanwhile Elder Shrewsbury looked towards the bed where poor Mary lay, Mary for whose love he had perjured his soul, Mary who never would have been his had he not given that sacred promise, the breaking of which made him an outlaw from heaven, and a thing to be despised of men. He looked for one single moment at his poor wife as she lay there, and then he turned upon his heel and went out of the room. For the wealth of all the world I would not feel as that man felt, if the thoughts which then crowded upon his brain were what, for the sake of our common humanity, I trust they were. The remembrance of the life which is folly or fanaticism, it matters little which, had blasted the thought of that solemn vow which he had taken to love her only and for ever. The sight of that dear one to whom he had once plighted his troth, now desolate forsaken, almost maniac in her wretchedness. Oh God, what a curse was there for any man's soul to bear. The physician when he came administered animatic and made them walk the patient about the room. Ellen and the friend of Mary who was present volunteered for this service. They supported her, one on each side, and paced her round and round the room, thus compelling her to exertion. And from time to time they made her swallow doses of strong coffee in which a little brandy had been mixed. When at length signs of returning consciousness were apparent, the physician left, promising to call again in the course of the morning. It was then that someone present thought of sending for me, and I arrived not long after the physician had gone. I was the only person outside the family, beside the friend whom I have mentioned, who knew of anything that had taken place, so careful worthy that the matter should not get abroad. And I should certainly not have been summoned had it not been for the close intimacy which existed between Mary and myself, which made us more like sisters than friends. The reader must not, however, suppose that in relating this I am even now betraying a trust, for my friends in Utah know well as I do that so many unhappy wives have in their desperation been driven to attempt self-destruction, that having no clue in the name which solely out of love for my poor friend I have all through this narrative given her. They will not know who to fix upon as the person to whom I allude. Besides poor Mary's family, in every other instance, with the solitary exception of sister Anne, my talkative friend, who is still living and is so well known in Salt Lake City, I have been as scrupulous in giving real names as I have been in stating only facts which I had either witnessed or knew beyond question were true. There is, however, one still living, he will know, let his own conscience be his accuser. In about half an hour's time Mary began to recognize those who were around her, but she did not seem disposed to speak. She opened her eyes and looked dreamily at me for a long time, but the slight pressure of my hand was her only recognition of my presence. I bent down over her and whispered a few assuring words in her ear, and for a moment a faint, weary smile lighted up her thin pale face. It was not like the sweet smiles of the bygone days which used to suffuse her whole countenance with sunshine. It was but the very ghost of a smile. Presently she sank into a gentle slumber, but I still sat by her on the bed, holding her hand in mine, and I remained there for two or three hours. Then after seeing that everything was at hand which she could possibly want if she awoke, and assured by Ellen that she would not leave her until she was able to sit up, I left for my own home. At the bottom of the stairs in the hallway I was confronted by Elder Shrewsbury himself. This surprised me as hitherto he had most sedulously avoided coming in contact with me. He gave me one searching glance, as if to read my thoughts, and then said, Sister Stenhouse, this is a most unhappy affair, but say nothing about it, no good can come of talking of such matters. I assured him that for Mary's sake, not for his, I would not speak of what had transpired, but when he held out his hand for me to shake, I affected not to see it, but wished him good morning, and left the house. For some time she said nothing to me about the sad event which had so greatly troubled us, and when at length she hesitatingly alluded to it, I was much relieved to find that the taking of the deadly drug was on her part wholly accidental. It was as I from the first suspected, for I knew and loved my dear friend too well to wrong her even by a thought. Cruely as she had suffered, wretched and miserable as she was, bitterly as she felt, the instincts of her heart were too true to allow a forsaking oblivion from her troubles in voluntary and premeditated death, as I have known was the case with many wretched Mormon wives. She had only thought to take an opiate to soothe the feverish excitement which had almost bereft her of reason, and in the weak and enfeebled condition in which she was the draft had been too powerful for her. Guiltless as she was she dreaded that others might impute wrong motives to her in what she had done, and even to me she spoke of her sickness painfully and with hesitation. After this I called day after day upon my poor friend until she was sufficiently recovered to walk about, and even to get out of doors a little. The story of the unhappy attempt which she was supposed to have made upon her life by some means, however, got rumored abroad, and she heard of it. She said nothing at the time, but I believe it preyed upon her mind. Weak and failing in health as she long had been, the shock which her system had received was too much for her, and it was evident to everyone who saw her that her earthly trials would soon be ended. She sank gradually, and life ebbed from her gently and without pain. A few days before she died she sent for me, and I spent several hours with her. I might say that they were happy hours, for the near prospect of death seemed to have dispelled all those gloomy fears of the future life which had for so many years troubled her soul, and she now looked forward with peaceful resignation to her approaching change. Death came at last to her when she was sleeping, and she passed away tranquilly and without a sigh. I almost rejoiced when I heard that at last her weary journey was over, and she was at rest. She had been ever very dear to me, and I loved her with the fondest affection. But I shall never think of her without bitter feelings towards that unholy system which brought her to an untimely grave, for she of all others was one of the fairest flowers which were ever blighted by Mormonism and polygamy. CHAPTER 41 OF TELL IT ALL by Fanny Stenhouse This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. My husband disfellowshipped, we apostatize, brutal outrage upon my husband and myself, not withstanding all my own personal troubles and the difficulties which surrounded us. The loss of my dear friend affected me very deeply, and yet her story is the same as might be told of hundreds of other English girls who have been lured from their happy homes and have died brokenhearted and neglected in Utah. Now came that change in our life which I had so long hoped for, but which always seemed to me so very far distant. We had been tossed by many a storm, but the violence of this last gale was such that it forced us clean out of the sea of Mormonism and landed us high and dry upon the firm ground of apostasy. My husband had been so long engaged in the defense of Mormonism that it had become almost a part of himself. Its doctrines and observances seemed to him beyond a question. Its weak and doubtful points were ignored, and implicit obedience to the behests of the priesthood was with him an article of faith. When therefore I heard him with others, talking over some of the questionable teachings of the church, criticizing Brigham's counsellings, doubting some of his measures, and speaking of him as they would of any of the other brethren, I was satisfied that his days of faith were numbered. The point that I had all along been aiming at was to get him to think for himself, for hitherto he had been a mere tool in the hands of the priesthood. Long years of submission and receiving as divine inspiration, all that a prophet is pleased to say unnecessarily benumbs the soul and withers its life, until, unconsciously, the victim becomes an abject slave. And this is the position today of many otherwise well-informed and intelligent people in the Mormon church. They are mere automata. About the time when my husband returned with his paper to Salt Lake City, the Utah magazine, a liberal journal just struggling into existence, began to call in question some of Brigham's measures, and the editors, who were all men of some mark in the Mormon church, presumed to hint that the people had rights and privileges, as well as the priesthood. This was done in a very quiet, unobtrusive way, but it was, nevertheless, pronounced rebellion and apostasy. My husband's paper was silent upon the subject, and in consequence, he was suspected of being in league with the enemy. This was another good reason why the people should be counseled not to take the paper in the telegraph. Although he was not yet sufficiently advanced in thought to give much direct aid to the questioners of Brigham's authority, I saw with pleasure that he did not wish to oppose them. The tone of his paper was evidently changing, and the articles which appeared from time to time gave serious offence to Brigham Young. This, however, was not all his wrongdoing. He had, of late, been neglectful in his attendance at the School of the Prophets, a meeting which was then held every Saturday for the benefit of the elders, but which has now for a time been discontinued, on account of some of the brethren turning traitor and revealing all that was said. Together with the editors of the Utah Magazine, Mr. Stenhouse and one or two others were summoned to appear at the school on the following Saturday to give their reasons for previous non-attendance. This they had all along anticipated and were therefore not surprised at the summons, but they hardly expected that Brigham would act so precipitately, for without waiting to hear their reasons he disfellowshipped them all for irregular attendance. Brigham's assumption of the right to disfellowship men from the Church because of irregular attendance at the School was a stretch of authority which startled my husband. What will he not do next, he said? To submit would be to acknowledge him absolute and me a slave. There is but one alternative now, slavery or freedom. Cost what it may, I will be free. Those who have never been enslaved by a superstitious faith, which mentally and bodily enthralls its devotees, as Mormonism does, can form no idea of the joy, the happiness which is experienced when, after years of spiritual servitude, the shackles are burst asunder, and the slave is free. There is pleasure even in the thought itself that one is free, free to think and free to act, free to worship according to the dictates of one's own conscience, and free to speak one's own opinions and sentiments without the constant fear that some spy is listening to every word and that the consequences may be far from pleasant. In August of the same year my husband sent a respectful and kindly letter to the bishop of our ward, stating that he had no faith in Brigham's claim to an infallible priesthood, and that he considered that he ought to be cut off from the church. I added a post-script, stating that I wished to share my husband's fate, little thinking that, within three days my request would be answered in a two literal manner. A little after ten o'clock on a Saturday night, succeeding our withdrawal from the church, we were returning home together. The night was very dark, and as our residence is in the suburbs of the city, north of the temple block, and the road very quiet, the walk was a very lonely one, and perhaps not altogether too safe. We had gone about a third of the way, when suddenly we saw four men come out from under some trees at a little distance from us. In the gloom of the night we could only see them very indistinctly, and could not distinguish who they were. They separated, and two of them came forward, and stumbled up against us, and two passed on beside us. For a moment I thought that they were intoxicated, but it was soon clear that they were acting from design. As soon as they approached they seized hold of my husband's arm, one on each side, and held him firmly, thus rendering him almost powerless. They were all masked, for it was supposed that thus we should not be able to discover their identity, and that if by any chance an investigation should subsequently be made into the doings of that night, it would not be possible for anyone to witness against them. I am inclined to think that these wretches, when they planned the attack, had not calculated upon my being present with my husband, and I imagine that when they saw me with him they supposed I should scream and run away after the manner of many women. In this, however, they were mistaken. I still clung to my husband's arm, but with my left hand caught hold of one of the ruffians by the collar of his coat, for I apprehended the worst, well-knowing of what atrocities these men were capable. It is no secret that the police of Salt Lake City, for it is the police who there commit murders and other inhuman outrages, treat with the greatest brutality all the unhappy Gentiles and apostates whose misfortune it is to fall into their power. This also is the wretched effects of the fanatical teaching of the Church. These men believe that Utah is Zion, the kingdom of God, and that citizens of the United States are but intruders upon this holy ground, that they ought to be driven out and despoiled of everything and even murdered if opportunity offers. They make no secret of these feelings towards the Gentiles and towards apostate Mormons. It is shown, if possible, in a somewhat stronger manner. The movements of the two men who held my husband were somewhat impeded by my clinging to his arm, and they seemed to hesitate for a moment. The other two, who stood a few feet distant from us, also hesitated. One of the men who held my husband said to them, Brethren, do your duty. We recognized his voice at once, as that of a certain policeman, a young man whom we had known in England when a child, and with whose family we had been upon the most friendly terms. In an instant I saw them raise their arms, as if taking aim, and for one brief second I thought that our end had now surely come, and that we, like so many obnoxious persons before us, were about to be murdered for the great sin of apostasy. This I firmly believe would have been my husband's fate if I had not chance to be with him, or had I run away they would probably have beaten him to death. They who I have every reason to believe were two of the regular and two of the special policemen. And then the next morning they would have discovered the body, and it would have been said that he had been murdered by Gentiles or apostates in a personal quarrel or a street brawl. My presence somewhat disarranged their plans, and it was that probably which caused the two men to hesitate, not knowing what would be considered their duty under present circumstances. A much less noble fate than assassination was reserved for us. The wretches, although otherwise well armed, were not holding revolvers in their hands as I at first supposed. They were furnished with huge garden syringes charged with the most disgusting filth in the preparation of which they took a special pains. So kindred to their own base natures was such an act that I doubt not they found it quite a labor of love. The moment the syringes were pointed at us, my husband, thinking a shot was coming, moved his head, and thus to a certain extent escaped the full force of the discharge. I, however, was not so fortunate. My hair, bonnet face, clothes person, every inch of my body, every tread that I wore, were in an instant saturated, and my husband, and myself stood there reeking from head to foot. The villains when they had perpetrated this disgusting and brutal outrage turned and fled. We ran after them for some little distance, but we had no arms and nothing with which to defend ourselves. In fact, we pursued them instinctively rather than with any idea of overtaking them. There was another man standing a little distance off in the direction in which they were running, and we could not tell how many might be concealed. The place, too, was dark and lonely, for they had gone behind the temple block, a fit corner for murderers to skulkin, a convenient spot for the commission of any unholy deed. I was burning with indignation, and longed to revenge myself upon the brutal cowards who had assaulted us. In my anger I called upon them to come out and kill us outright, for I would have preferred death to such an indignity. I almost wondered that they did not take me at my word and return and finish their foul work, for they have long acted upon the principle that dead men tell no tales. There were, at that time in Utah, a great many special or secret police who were always ready for any dirty, brutal, or murderous work. Just near our home in Salt Lake City there is one miserable old fellow who has not yet been called to account for his numerous crimes and felonies. In his younger days he was one of these secret police, and to judge from his language his only regret now is that he is no longer fit for active service. He has often told a neighbor of mine who he believes is a good Mormon, that nothing would give him more pleasure than to serve my husband and myself as he thinks we deserve, simply because we have dared to oppose Mormonism. The wife of one of the men whom we had suspected not long after came to see me and told me that she did not doubt that her husband had been engaged in the affair, for she had accused him of it, and he had not denied it. It seems perhaps strange that any wife should act thus, but this poor woman had a great regard for me, but none at all for her husband who treated her most brutally. I shall never forget that night. I declared that henceforth I would tear from my heart every association, every memory, every affection, which still remained to bind me to Mormonism. Not one solitary link should be left. Henceforth I would be the declared and open enemy of the priesthood. To the utmost of my power, weak though I might be, I would arouse the women of Utah to a sense of the wrongs which they endured. I would proclaim to the world the disgrace which Mormonism is to the great American nation, the foul blot that it is upon Christianity and the civilization of the age. I do not blame the mass of the Mormon people that such outrageous as this can be perpetrated in their midst. I blame the priesthood, and I blame the leaders and their teachings. I know the honest hearts of the Mormon community at large, and that as a body they revolted at the atrocious wrong that had been done to us, although no one who valued their standing in the church dared openly express what they felt, hundreds did so in private while the whole Gentile community was aroused and indignant, and letters came from all parts of the country, and visitors daily called upon me to express their sympathy. My son-in-law Joseph A. Young, on the night of the attack, offered a reward to the chief of the police for the apprehension of the Ruffians, but we knew well enough they would never be discovered. A few Gentile friends also offered a reward of five hundred dollars for any evidence that might lead to their identification, but nothing of course was elicited. The Mormon paper, in order to divert attention from the guilty parties, insinuated that the outrage had been provoked by some family difficulty, and suggested that the brothers of my husband's second and now divorced wife were the offenders. This I knew was utterly false, for they were respectable young men who would have scorned such an action, and between them and my husband not the slightest ill-feeling existed. I therefore sent a letter to Belinda, telling her what had been said, and asking her to write to me stating that it was all untrue. I felt sure that she would willingly comply with my request, and I proposed, as I informed her, to publish her reply, and thus exonerate her brothers from all blame. A lady who was present when Belinda received the note, told me that she asked her mother who was also there at the time what she should do about it, and that her mother said, you had better take the letter to Brother Brigham, and do whatever he counsels you to do. She did so, and Brother Brigham told her to pay no attention to it. Brigham did not care whether her brothers or anyone else were disgraced, or who was made the scapegoat, so that the vile minions of the priesthood might escape undetected. The suggestion that a personal difficulty, or a family matter had provoked the outrage, was by no means a new one. In the same way the Indians had been credited with many a deed of blood, when apostates fleeing from Zion were found murdered and horribly mangled in the canyons, or on the planes. The same course also was adopted when Dr. Robinson, of whom I have already spoken, was assassinated. On the following Sunday in the Tabernacle Brigham Young suggested that the doctor had met his death in a gambling quarrel, and that some man whom he had personally wronged had dealt the fatal blow. But everyone in Salt Lake City, whether Mormon or Gentile, Brigham Young included, knew that Dr. Robinson was innocent of any gambling predilections, and was the last man to make a personal enemy. Then Brigham offered a reward of five hundred dollars for the discovery of the murderers. But subsequently, when several of the brethren had been arrested, charged with that very crime, and indictments against them had been found by the grand jury, he withdrew his offer lest, as he said, some evil-minded person might commit perjury for the sake of the reward. It was the same with ourselves. Everyone could conjecture with tolerable accuracy who it was that had planned the outrage, but the reward which was offered was, as well we knew it would be, all in vain. Good Mormons did not dare to express their thoughts, but we all knew that the outrage was the direct result of the teachings of the Tabernacle, and that, although the authorities might not, and probably did not, directly command it, they connived at it and never took the first step towards the discovery of the wretched scoundrels who perpetrated the deed. End of Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Of Tell It All by Fanny Stenhouse This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Amusing troubles of my talkative friend Charlotte with the golden hair. Not long after our separation from the Mormon church, I received another visit from my talkative friend. As according to her custom, she was making a preliminary fuss at the door before entering. I heard her voice and was at a loss to conjecture whether she came for the purpose of lamenting my apostasy and in treating my immediate return to the bosom of the church or to condole with me concerning the brutal outrage to which we had been subjected. In both suppositions I was, however mistaken. She came to talk about her own woes. You'll be surprised, my dear sister Stenhouse, she said. To see me looking so utterly miserable, I'm sure I must look the picture of despair and I feel it. You don't know what I've been suffering and how shamefully I have been used. You look very well, I think, but I'm sorry to hear you have met with any difficulty, said I. And she stopped for a moment to take a breath. Oh, you may say so, she replied, but you know you don't think so in your heart why I did not even stop to put on my bonnet straight, she said, stealing a look at the glass, and I ran all the way here for I felt as if I should die if I could not pour my sorrows into the bosom of some faithful-hearted friend. Oh, I have been treated shamefully and I feel it the more, as you know what a reserved woman I am and how seldom it is that I open my lips about family matters, even to my dearest friends. Well, but, I said, what really is the matter? You have not yet told me what your trouble is. Sister Stenhouse, she said, you have had a few little vexations in the course of your life, I know, but they are nothing to compare to the frightful indignities that I have suffered in the course of the last few days. I never thought I should come to this. I hate every man in the place, and I detest my husband most of all, and I loathe his wives, and I execrate brother, why sister Anne, what can have happened, I exclaimed, interrupting her. Happened, she cried, starting from her chair in indignation. I tell you, Sister Stenhouse, nothing has happened, nothing was done by chance. He did it all with his eyes open against my advice. I tell you, he did it on purpose. Did what, I asked, and who was it that did it? But by this time I had to begin to form a shrewd guess as to who the culprit was. Why, he married that wretched little shrimp of a girl, with blue eyes and red hair and a die-away lackadaisical manner. It was he, my husband Henry. He married her this very day, and I tell you, he did it on purpose. I'm sorry that it annoys you, I said, but really I am surprised after all you have said to me that you should care if he had taken a half-dozen wives, to say nothing of the one he married this morning, and who you say is only a very little one. It doesn't matter the size, Sister Stenhouse, she said, but the color of the eyes and the shade of the hair matters a great deal. If that miserable little minx had had black hair or green eyes, I daresay Henry would not have cared too straws about her, unless he had dunded out of sheer perversity, for all men are made of the same contrary stuff, but he dotes on blue eyes. I heard him myself tell her so one day, when I was listening to them to the crack of the door, and they didn't know I was so near, but my wounded feelings would not suffer me to remain silent, and I bounced in and said I. Henry, how dare you talk such outrageous nonsense to that child in my presence. But I didn't know you were present, he said. I tell you, said I, I am quite disgusted with you, a man with three wives and me one of them, to go talking twaddle to a little chattering-hussy like that, with her cat's eyes and her red hair. Golden hair, my dear, he said, Charlotte's hair is golden. I say red. It's straight, staring red, as red as red can be, I told him. And then we had a regular fight over it. I don't mean that we came to blows, but we had some hot words and he went out and left us two alone. Then that young hussy was impudent, and I don't know how it was, but somehow when we left off our conversation I found some of Charlotte's red hair between my fingers, and there, she said innocently holding out quite a respectable-sized tuft of auburn hair. There I put it to you, Sister Stenhouse. Is that red, or is it not? I was about to reply, but without waiting an instant she dashed the stolen locks to the ground and said, I daresay, Sister Stenhouse, you think me quite a little hasty, and yet among my friends I've always been quite proverbial for the calmness and evenness of my temper. But I've been tried very much lately, and if only you would not keep interrupting me, dear, if you'd just allow me to say a word or two in my turn, I'd tell you something that would open your eyes to the ingratitude and wickedness of men. I don't wonder that you have left the church. I am thinking of doing so myself, and you won't wonder at it when you hear what I've got to say. What do you say to my leaving the church? Won't people be astonished? But I declare, Sister Stenhouse, I do seriously mean to leave the church as soon as I get my new bonnet. Why your new bonnet, I asked in surprise. Because, dear, I shall become an object of interest. All the sisters will have their eyes upon me, and even gentiles will say, There's a lady who had the courage to leave the Mormon church and quit an ungrateful husband who was not worthy of her. And you know, Sister Stenhouse, it would not do to have people looking at me and talking about me before I got my new bonnet. Oh yes, she said. I ought to have told you that before, but I was so angry at what had just happened that I forgot everything else. The fact is that my husband is a man, and there's no calculating what a man will do. Women, you know, are proverbial for the constancy of their affections, and their slowness in changing their minds. You know when you're talking to a woman, that she is a woman, and you know exactly what to do with her. But with a man it's quite different. You can't calculate a man. You can't fathom him. When you've been thinking one way and another, and at last begin to fancy you know what to do, why then a man, if it's him you've got to do with, will turn just round, and while you've been making everything smooth for him to do one thing, he'll go and do exactly the opposite. I know what men are by this time, and I speak from experience. It was just so with Henry and this girl he has gone quite against the grain with me, and I feel it all the more because he used to be so quiet and anxious to do exactly what I wanted. But he doesn't care a fig now whether I'm pleased or not. He only thinks about this red-headed girl. In fact he's quite crazy about her, and if there's any sin in apostasy you may remember that it was he who drove me into it. That seems hardly fair, I said, for you knew all along that it was his privilege to take more wives. That's very true, she exclaimed. It is his privilege to take wives, but it's my privilege to choose them for him. I'm a good Mormon and I don't mind how many wives my husband takes, if he'll only act reasonably about getting them. But, Sister Stenhouse, I do not want a parcel of girls about the house. I'm so far from wishing to you, Serp Authority, that as I told Henry I would not mind if his wives were even a little older than me, but I won't have them younger. It makes Henry look so silly. Why to see him with that girl Charlotte now, who isn't more than half my own age? No, I don't mean that. I mean she's slightly younger than I am. You might really almost imagine that he thought more of her than he does of me. I know he doesn't, for he has told me so, but anyone to see them together would quite get a wrong impression. When did he marry Charlotte, I asked? You spoke so hastily, Sister Anne, that I did not quite understand you. When? Why, he married her this morning, as I thought. I told you, he has only just done it. He said he was anxious to be in a quiet state of mind today, so I gave him a piece of my mind and he was so astonished at the pointed way in which I explained to him what a fool he'd been making of himself that he quite showed it in his face. The fact is, Sister Stenhouse, he has lately become rather more than I could manage. About six months ago he seemed, I thought, to be getting a little inattentive to his last wife, so I thought it was quite time for me to see about finding him another. So I looked round, but didn't for some time meet with the suitable person. At last I found a very nice young woman, 35 or 40 years of age, who I thought would do. She was nice and tall, a little taller than Henry himself, but that didn't matter, for she was doubt in proportion. Henry would have it that she didn't look straight with her two eyes, but that was all nonsense. She was a nice motherly woman, with a deep, bass voice which sounds so well in large fat women, but though she wasn't what you would call handsome, she certainly wasn't plain. My reason in choosing her was that I thought she would do nicely for the housework and could look after the children, for I was forced to stay at home so much that it was quite injuring my health. A very good reason, I said. So I thought, dear, she replied, but I could not bring Henry to see it in that light. Whenever I spoke to him about her, he said that she was old enough to be his grandmother and squinted. At last I got quite tired out, for I could never get him to call upon her, and when she came to the house he hardly said a word to her. So I got her to come and stay with us, for then I thought Henry would become accustomed to her presence. But he took to holding his tongue at mealtimes, the only times when we all met together, and it was as much as I could do to keep up the conversation, for, you know, I am naturally very taciturn. Then he suddenly took to attending all the church meetings, and it was astonishing how many he discovered it was his duty to attend. He seemed to be absent almost every evening. The mystery to me was, what could have made him so pious all of a sudden? He seemed altogether too good. You can understand, Sister Stenhouse, that had there been any young girl at the meetings to whom he had taken a fancy, it would have been useless for them to try to throw dust in my eyes. You know that I'm not likely to be deceived. I said that I did know it, and she continued, There was one of the brethren, a near neighbor of ours, who between ourselves I think rather admires me, for he said once quite publicly that I beat every one he knew in conversation, and if that's not a compliment I don't know what is. Well, this brother I got to watch my husband. I told him that I did not want him to act as a spy upon his movements, as that would have been very mean. I only wanted him to watch carefully all that he said and did at the meetings, and to notice who he spoke to, and if it was a meeting where women were admitted, to be doubly watchful, and especially to notice how he looked when he talked with anyone. You see, sister, I agree with you, that it is quite right for us to look closely after our husbands, although of course I would be the last one to encourage a system of espionage. I ventured to suggest that I had not expressed any opinion at all about watching our husbands, and said I believed there were not half a dozen women in Salt Lake City who would dare to think of such a thing. Well, never mind all that, sister Stenhouse, she said. If you did not have that opinion, you might have had it, and it comes to much the same thing. I used to see the good brother I spoke of very frequently, in fact almost every day, and the first question I always asked was, did my husband come to meeting last night? And often asked not he said he didn't know, for he hadn't been himself, and after a month or more I had learned nothing, except that my husband was never seen with a lady at any of the meetings. This was all very well, but so certain was I that all his dressing and titivation was not done for nothing, and that he wouldn't be so pious without expecting to get something in return, for he is a very good and sensible man in all religious affairs. That I resolved to take a whole affair in hand myself, and fare it out the mystery, if there really was one. The very next night he went out as usual, and I, having dressed myself in readiness, followed him. But we hadn't gone two minutes walk before I met the brother I just mentioned, and of course I was compelled to stop and tell him all about it, and by the time we left off my husband was out of sight, and it was no good looking after him. Some people when they begin to talk you never know when they'll end, and this good brother is one of them, you can't edge in a word. Well you see now I was out it seemed a pity to go home without calling upon someone, so I went round to sister Ellis. They told me she was out and I was just going away, when lo and behold, who should I see but my dear Henry marching down the street in the direction of the theatre, with a red-headed girl hanging on his arm. Oh, I said to myself, that's the kind of church meeting you go to my dear, is it? They were so busy with one another I never saw Henry look worse or more stupid in my life, that they didn't see me at all. I did not cross over to them, for I felt too much compassion for their folly to wish to interrupt them then. Go on, my dears, I thought, make the most of your opportunity, for I'll answer that one of you won't go to the theatre again for some time. I wasn't the least bit jealous, jealousy is a sentiment that could never dwell in my bosom, but I did hate the sight of that odious girl, and I resolved to take my husband in hand immediately. Well, sister, I said, I should have thought that his finding a wife for himself would have saved you a world of trouble. Oh, dear no, sister Stenhouse, she replied, it was trouble I did not want to be saved. Men have no business, in my opinion, to choose their own wives after the first. I know the men do do it, one and all, but it's a shameful stretch of authority. I should like to know whether it is not of much more consequence to me what wife my husband has than it is to him. However I resolved that my husband should never marry the redheaded girl, and the very next morning I told him so, and what do you think the inhuman creature said? You've been persuading me all these years, he said, to take another wife, although I've already got three, and now I've begun to do so, you blame me. I think I've as good a right as anyone to say who I'll marry and who I won't. Did you ever hear such ingratitude? Would you hear of such a thing from your husband, sister Stenhouse? I told her that with Mormonism my husband had given up polygamy, and she continued. Well, I tried to bring him to reason, but it was of no use, and then I told him that the girl should never set foot inside the house while I was in it. This was a very unfortunate speech for I do believe that up to that time he wanted as much as possible to keep the girl out of my way, but the moment I said that, to show his dignity I suppose, he declared that she should come to tea with us that very afternoon, and he would go and fetch her. And he did so. I wouldn't go down to tea at first, though both the other wives were there, and he set up for me. But my pride would not allow me to stoop. At last I got tired of being all alone, and as it occurred to me that perhaps they might be enjoying themselves without me, I resolved to go down and see if I could not do something to annoy them. Down I went, and Henry, all smiling, introduced the girl to me as Sister Charlotte, talking of her as if he had known her for years. Was it not shameful? It must have been very awkward for you, I said. It was indeed, Sister Stenhouse, and I soon made it awkward for them I assure you, after I joined them there was not a soul present who had a moment's comfort till that girl went away. My husband, however, took her home, and from that very day he seemed resolved to have the upper hand. He never for a moment would listen to a word I said about the girl. He brought her in every evening, and took her to the theatre constantly and paid her ten times more attention than he ever paid me. I wasn't jealous, Sister Stenhouse, no one, as I said before, could ever suspect me of jealousy. But I did hate that girl. If he had not loved her, I can't say whether I myself might not have liked her. But the very fact of him loving her makes me detest her. But it's only a little proper pride on my part. I'm not in the least jealous, oh dear no. Of course not, I said. I don't know about that, she said. I've borne enough from those two to drive fifty women crazy with jealousy. And things went on from bad to worse, until the other day when, as I told you, we had that little unpleasantness. My husband, when he came back, was downright angry, and made use of shocking language, and told me that if he could not have peace in the house, he would have me borne out by myself in some other part of the city. He said that I had scratched Charlotte's face and torn out her hair, but that was quite untrue, as I told him. And as for the hair which fell out, it was all an accident. He said that Charlotte did not like such accidents, and that he would not put up with it. He was very cross and disagreeable all the rest of the day, and made me quite miserable and broken-hearted. And the next day to wind it all up, he told me that he and Charlotte had arranged to the day of the wedding. I stormed and raved, for I had fully resolved that marry whom he might. He should never marry a girl if he really loved her, or if I had not chosen her. But it was of no use. I was forced to go over with him to the endowment-house to give him to that detestable little vixen. I tell you, Sister Stenhouse, I hate her. And oh, oh dear, what shall I do now? My husband has fallen in love with her. Here to my infinite astonishment she rose from her seat and rushed about the room, wringing her hands and exclaiming, oh dear, oh dear! She then threw herself right down on the couch and actually burst into tears, crying out, oh dear, what shall I do with my Henry and that girl? I raised her up and tried to comfort her as well as I could, but she was a very awkward woman to deal with under such circumstances. The more gently I spoke to her, the more violent did she become, and the louder were her lamentations. She forgot that she had been the cause of her husband taking any plural wives at all, and she uprated him as the source of all her woes. One moment she would denounce him as a heartless wretch. Then she would go into fits of maudlin sympathy over him, declaring that her Henry was the dearest man alive, until that horrid red-headed girl led him astray. Oh dear, dear Sister Stenhouse, she exclaimed, as she threw both arms round my neck and covered me with tears. Never do as I have done, never get a wife for your husband again, or he'll learn to do it for himself. Oh, and Sister Stenhouse, let us kneel down and ask the Lord to strengthen us in this hour of tribulation, and oh, she added piteously, I should take it as such a very great favour, Sister, if you wouldn't mind trimming that bonnet for me, you've got such a taste. I assured her that I would trim the bonnet or do anything else that would help to assuage her grief. So she had her cry out, and then she went on talking. She stopped and had some lunch, and still she talked, and at last when a little girl came round with a message from her husband, saying that she was wanted at home, she left me in the middle of a long speech in which she was explaining the steps which she meant to take to bring her Henry to reason, and to compel him to obtain a divorce from that red-headed hussy. That same evening she came again. This time she brought with her the bonnet and the materials for trimming it, and I promised her that she should have but a little while to wait, for she said she was overflowing with anxiety to quit the Mormon church, and she felt convinced that that could not properly be done by anyone wearing an old or dowdy bonnet. She had had a warm time with the bride and the bridegroom, and seemed quite cheerful at the thought that she had thoroughly spoiled the happiness of their wedding-day, for she had left them both with ruffled tempers and in the worst of humours. After that she was almost always with me until the bonnet was finished, which was not until a couple of days later, for I was delayed by some more important matters which unexpectedly engaged my attention, and when she went away she was as lavish with her thanks and praises as she was with her promises respecting the mighty things which she was going to do, and to the bright example she would become to the women of Utah. I did not see her for several weeks, and then I accidentally met her in the street, and asked her why she had not called upon me lately. She was wearing her new bonnet, but I had heard nothing about her apostasy. Oh, Sister Stenhouse, she said, I'm delighted to see you. You've been constantly in my thoughts, but I've been so hard at work. Oh, so busy I really had not time for anything, not even to apostatise. How was that, I asked? Oh, she replied, when I thought over the matter I saw very clearly that it wouldn't do to render myself conspicuous with this old dress. The bonnet's very nice, and I want to thank you, dear, for the trimming, but I must wait until I get that silk dress which Henry says I really shall have soon. I'm not so very sure, though, whether he would give me the dress if I were to apostatise, so I'd better wait and get it first. Then, too, you see, I've had my hands full. If you want to make a man slide one woman and get tired of her, there's nothing like putting a nicer woman than her in his way. So I reconsidered the matter, and resolved cost what it might. I'd get another wife for my husband right away. I don't care now whether she's old or young, ugly or pretty, so long as she cuts out that detestable red-headed girl. I've run all over the town and rushed about here and there, all for his sake, though he'll never be grateful for it. And now, at last, do you know, dear, I really do think I've got the girl I want. She's all dark, dark hair, dark eyes, dark complexion. If he marries her, as I mean him to do, she'll lead him a fine life, not withstanding all her winning ways. I wouldn't stand in his shoes when she's his wife, but I know I shall be able to manage her, for I have a deeper insight into character than he has, and a better command of temper. She'll teach Miss Charlotte to keep her place, and she'll make Henry mind, too. It'll do him good. I've done it all out of love to him, not a spark of jealousy or ill-feeling as you are well aware. The idea of setting one wife against another in order to keep the peace would appear in the case of my talkative friend to have been successful. For sure enough, six months after the time of which I have just spoken, her Henry did marry the dark beauty, and she and her auburn predecessor presented an interesting contrast when they chanced to appear in the street together in the company of their husband. There did not seem to be much love lost between them. I'm busy now looking after a likely girl, for I do think a man in my Henry's position ought to live his religion, and have at least seven wives. Seven, you know, is such a very lucky number. Thank you.