menu_book Chapter 42

CHAPTER XLII. 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 entreating 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 Brick, 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 begun 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 dare say Henry would not have cared two straws about her unless he had done it 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 through 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 to 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 sat 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 dare say, 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 around, 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 usurp 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 a suitable person. At last I found a very nice young woman, thirty-five or forty 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 stout 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, base 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 meal times, 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 as 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 the whole affair in hand myself and ferret out the mystery if there really was one. The very next night he went out as usual, and I, having dressed myself in readiness, called 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, isn't 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,

dear 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 born 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 brought 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, Mr. 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 upbraided 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 favor, 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 am 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 apostatize. 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 apostatize, 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 slight 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 redheaded 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 notwithstanding 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 company of their husband. There did not seem to be much love lost between them. Successful in her plans and having, as she said, now brought her Henry to reason, my

talkative friend gave up all idea of leaving the church, and when I last saw her, she said, 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.