XXV
AMONG THE MORMONS
November, 1913.
MY DEAR FRIEND,â
I have wanted to write you for a long time, but have been so busy. I have had some visitors and have been on a visit; I think you would like to hear about it all, so I will tell you.
I donât think you would have admired my appearance the morning this adventure began: I was in the midst of fall house-cleaning which included some papering. I am no expert at the very best, and papering a wall has difficulties peculiar to itself. I was up on a barrel trying to get a long, sloppy strip of paper to stick to the ceiling instead of to me, when in my visitors trooped, and so surprised me that I stepped off the barrel and into a candy-bucket of paste. At the same time the paper came off the ceiling and fell over mine and Mrs. Loudererâs head. It was right aggravating, I can tell you, but my visitors were Mrs. OâShaughnessy and Mrs. Louderer, and no one could stay discouraged with that pair around.
After we had scraped as much paste as we could off ourselves they explained that they had come to take me somewhere. That sounded good to me, but I could not see how I could get off. However, Mrs. Louderer said she had come to keep house and to take care of the children while I should go with Mrs. OâShaughnessy to Eââ. We should have two daysâ travel by sled and a few hours on a train, then another journey by sled. I wanted to go powerfully, but the paste-smeared room seemed to forbid.
As Mrs. Louderer would stay with the children, Mr. Stewart thought the trip would be good for me. Mrs. OâShaughnessy knew I wanted to visit Bishop Dââ, a shining light among the Latter-Day Saints, so she promised we should stay overnight at his house. That settled it; so in the cold, blue light of the early morning, Mr. Beeler, a new neighbor, had driven my friends over in Mrs. Loudererâs big sled, to which was hitched a pair of her great horses and his own team. He is a widower and was going out to the road for supplies, so it seemed a splendid time to make my long-planned visit to the Bishop. Deep snow came earlier this year than usual, and the sledding and weather both promised to be good. It was with many happy anticipations that I snuggled down among the blankets and bearskins that morning.
Mrs. Louderer and Mrs. OâShaughnessy
Mr. Beeler is pleasant company, and Mrs. OâShaughnessy is so jolly and bright, and I could leave home without a single misgiving with Mrs. Louderer in charge.
The evening sky was blazing crimson and gold, and the mountains behind us were growing purple when we entered the little settlement where the Bishop lives. We drove briskly through the scattered, straggling little village, past the store and the meetinghouse, and drew up before the dwelling of the Bishop. The houses of the village were for the most part small cabins of two or three rooms, but the Bishopâs was more pretentious. It was a frame building and boasted paint and shutters. A tithing-office stood near, and back of the house we could see a large granary and long stacks of hay. A bunch of cattle was destroying one stack, and Mrs. OâShaughnessy remarked that the tallow from those cattle should be used when the olive oil gave out at their anointings, because it was the Bishopâs cattle eating consecrated hay.
We knocked on the door, but got no answer. Mr. Beeler went around to the back, but no one answered, so we concluded we would have to try elsewhere for shelter. Mrs. OâShaughnessy comforted me by remarking, âWell, there ainât a pennyâs worth of difference in a Mormon bishop and any other Mormon, and Dââis not the only polygamist by a long shot.â
We had just turned out of the gate when a lanky, tow-headed boy about fourteen years of age rode up. We explained our presence there, and the boy explained to us that the Bishop and Aunt Debbie were away. The next best house up the road was his âMawâs,â he said; so, as Mr. Beeler expected to stay with a friend of his, Mrs. OâShaughnessy and I determined to see if âMawâ could accommodate us for the night.
Mr. Beeler offered to help the boy get the cattle out, but he said, âNo, Paw said it would not matter if they got into the hay, but that he had to knock off some poles on another part of the stockyard so that some horses could get in to eat.â
âBut,â I asked, âisnât that consecrated hay?âis nât it tithing?â
âYes,â he said, âbut that wonât hurt a bit, only that old John Ladd always pays his tithe with foxtail hay and it almost ruins Pawâs horsesâ mouths.â
I asked him if his fatherâs stock was supposed to get the hay.
âNo, I guess not,â he said, âbut they are always getting in accidental like.â
We left him to fix the fence so the horses could get in âaccidental like,â and drove the short distance to âthe next best house.â
We were met at the door by a pleasant-faced little woman who hurried us to the fire. We told her our plight. âWhy, certainly you must stay with me,â she said. âI am glad the Bishop and Deb are away. They keep all the company, and I so seldom have any one come; you see Debbie has no children and can do so much better for any one stopping there than I can, but I like company, too, and I am glad of a chance to keep you. You two can have Maudieâs bed. Maud is my oldest girl and she has gone to Ogden to visit, so we have plenty of room.â
By now it was quite dark. She lighted a lamp and bustled about, preparing supper. We sat by the stove and, as Mrs. OâShaughnessy said, ânoticed.â
Two little boys were getting in wood for the night. They appeared to be about eight years old; they were twins and were the youngest of the family. Two girls, about ten and twelve years old, were assisting our hostess; then the boy Orson, whom we met at the gate, and Maud, the daughter who was away, made up the family. They seemed a happy, contented family, if one judged by appearance alone. After supper the children gathered around the table to prepare next dayâs lessons. They were bright little folks, but they mingled a great deal of talk with their studies and some of what they talked was family history.
âMamma,â said Kittie, the largest of the little girls, âif Aunt Deb does buy a new coat and you get her old one, then can I have yours?â
âI donât know,â her mother replied; âI should have to make it over if you did take it. Maybe we can have a new one.â
âNo, we canât have a new one, I know, for Aunt Deb said so, but she is going to give me her brown dress and you her gray one; she said so the day I helped her iron. Weâll have those to make over.â
For the first time I noticed the discontented lines on our hostessâs face, and it suddenly occurred to me that we were in the house of the Bishopâs second wife. Before I knew I was coming on this journey I thought of a dozen questions I wanted to ask the Bishop, but I could never ask that care-worn little woman anything concerning their peculiar belief. However, I was spared the trouble, for soon the children retired and the conversation drifted around to Mormonism and polygamy; and our hostess seemed to want to talk, so I just listened, for Mrs. OâShaughnessy rather likes to âargufyâ; but she had no argument that night, only her questions started our hostessâs story.
She had been married to the Bishop not long before the manifesto, and he had been married several years then to Debbie. But Debbie had no children, and all the money the Bishop had to start with had been his first wifeâs; so when it became necessary for him to discard a wife it was a pretty hard question for him because a little child was coming to the second wife and he had nothing to provide for her with except what his first wifeâs money paid for. The first wife said she would consent to him starting the second, if she filed on land and paid her back a small sum every year until it was all paid back. So he took the poor âsecond,â after formally renouncing her, and helped her to file on the land she now lives on. He built her a small cabin, and so she started her career as a âsecond.â I suppose the âfirstâ thought she would be rid of the second, who had never really been welcome, although the Bishop could never have married a âsecondâ without her consent.
âI would never consent,â said Mrs. OâShaughnessy.
âOh, yes, you would if you had been raised a Mormon,â said our hostess. âYou see, we were all of us children of polygamous parents. We have been used to plural marriages all our lives. We believe that such experience fits us for our after-life, as we are only preparing for life beyond while here.â
âDo you expect to go to heaven, and do you think the man who married you and then discarded you will go to heaven too?â asked Mrs. OâShaughnessy.
âOf course I do,â she replied.
âThen,â said Mrs. OâShaughnessy, âI am afraid if it had been mysilf Iâd have been after raising a little hell here intirely.â
Our hostess was not offended, and there followed a long recital of earlier-day hard times that you would scarcely believe any one could live through. It seems the first wife in such families is boss, and while they do not live in the same homes, still she can very materially affect the otherâs comfort.
Mrs. OâShaughnessy asked her if she had married again.
She said, âNo.â
âThen,â said Mrs. OâShaughnessy, âwhose children are these?â
âMy own,â she replied.
Mrs. OâShaughnessy was relentless. âWho is their father?â she asked.
I was right sorry for the poor little woman as she stammered, âIâI donât know.â
Then she went on, âOf course I do know, and I donât believe you are spying to try to stir up trouble for my husband. Bishop Dââis their father, as he is still my husband, although he had to cast me off to save himself and me. I love him and I see no wrong in him. All the Gentiles have against him is he is a little too smart for them. âT was their foolish law that made him wrong the children and me, and not his wishes.â
âBut,â Mrs. OâShaughnessy said, âit places your children in such a plight; they canât inherit, they canât even claim his name, they have no status legally.â
âOh, but the Bishop will see to that,â the little woman answered.
Mrs. OâShaughnessy asked her if she had still to work as hard as she used to.
âNo, I donât believe I do,â she said, âfor since Mr. Dââhas been Bishop, things come easier. He built this house with his own money, so Deb has nothing to do with it.â
I asked her if she thought she was as happy as âsecondâ as she would be if she was the only wife.
âOh, I donât know,â she said, âperhaps not. Deb and me donât always agree. She is jealous of the children and because I am younger, and I get to feeling bad when I think she is perfectly safe as a wife and has no cares. She has everything she wants, and I have to take what I can get, and my children have to wait upon her. But it will all come right somewhere, sometime,â she ended cheerfully, as she wiped her eyes with her apron.
I felt so sorry for her and so ashamed to have seen into her sorrow that I was really glad next morning when I heard Mr. Beelerâs cheerful voice calling, âAll aboard!â
We had just finished breakfast, and few would ever guess that Mrs. Dââknew a trial; she was so cheerful and so cordial as she bade us good-bye and urged us to stop with her every time we passed through.
About noon that day we reached the railroad. The snow had delayed the train farther north, so for once we were glad to have to wait for a train, as it gave us time to get a bite to eat and to wash up a bit. It was not long, however, till we were comfortably seated in the train. I think a train ride might not be so enjoyable to most, but to us it was a delight; I even enjoyed looking at the Negro porter, although I suspect he expected to be called Mister. I found very soon after coming West that I must not say âUncleâ or âAuntyâ as I used to at home.
It was not long until they called the name of the town at which we wanted to stop. Mrs. OâShaughnessy had a few acquaintances there, but we went to a hotel. We were both tired, so as soon as we had supper we went to bed. The house we stopped at was warmer and more comfortable than the average hotel in the West, but the partitions were very thin, so when a couple of âpunchers,â otherwise cowboys, took the room next to ours, we could hear every word they said.
It appears that one was English and the other a tenderfoot. The tenderfoot was in love with a girl who had filed on a homestead near the ranch on which he was employed, but who was then a waitress in the hotel we were at. She had not seemed kind to the tenderfoot and he was telling his friend about it. The Englishman was trying to instruct him as to how to proceed.
âYou need to be very circumspect, Johnny, where females are concerned, but you must nât be too danged timid either.â
âI donât know what the devil to say to her; I can barely nod my head when she asks me will I take tea or coffee; and to-night she mixed it because I nodded yes when she said, âtea or coffee,â and it was the dangdest mess I ever tried to get outside of.â
âWell,â the friend counseled, âyou just get her into a corner someâeres and say to âer, âDearest âAttie, I hoffer you my âand hand my âeart.ââ
âBut I canât,â wailed Johnny. âI could never get her into a corner anyway.â
âIf you canât, youâre not hold enough to marry then. What the âell would you do with a woman in the âouse if you couldnât corner âer? I tell âe, women âave to âave a master, and no man better tackle that job until âe can be sure âe can make âer walk the chalk-line.â
âBut I donât want her to walk any line; I just want her to speak to me.â
âDang me if I donât believe you are locoed. Why, sheâs got âe throwed hand âog-tied now. What dâe want to make it any worse for?â
They talked for a long time and the Englishman continued to have trouble with his hâs; but at last Johnny was encouraged to âcorner âerâ next morning before they left for their ranch.
We expected to be astir early anyway, and our curiosity impelled us to see the outcome of the friendâs counsel, so we were almost the first in the dining-room next morning. A rather pretty girl was busy arranging the tables, and soon a boyish-looking fellow, wearing great bat-wing chaps, came in and stood warming himself at the stove.
I knew at once it was Johnny, and I saw ââAttieâ blush. The very indifference with which she treated him argued well for his cause, but of course he didnât know that. So when she passed by him and her skirt caught on his big spurs they both stooped at once to unfasten it; their heads hit together with such a bump that the ice was broken, although he seemed to think it was her skull. I am sure there ought to be a thaw after all his apologies. After breakfast Mrs. OâShaughnessy went out to see her friend Cormac OâToole. He was the only person in town we could hope to get a team from with which to continue our journey. This is a hard country on horses at best, and at this time of the year particularly so; few will let their teams go out at any price, but Mrs. OâShaughnessy had hopes, and she is so persuasive that I felt no one could resist her. There was a drummer at breakfast who kept âcussingâ the country. He had tried to get a conveyance and had failed; so the cold, the snow, the people, and everything else disgusted him.
Soon Mrs. OâShaughnessy returned, and as the drummer was trying to get out to Eââ, and that was our destination also, she made her way toward him, intending to invite him to ride with us. She wore over her best clothes an old coat that had once belonged to some one of her men friends. It had once been bearskin, but was now more bare skin, so her appearance was against her; she looked like something with the mange. So Mr. Drummer did not wait to hear what she was going to say but at once exclaimed, âNo, madam, I cannot let you ride out with me. I ca...