“So blinded are we by our passions
that we suffer more to be damned than to be saved.”—Colton.
The choice epithets of Bishop Langley on this occasion can form no part
of this record. Suffice it to say that they embodied rather the
ecclesiastical than the Christian spirit, and both spirit and epithets
were imitated from his superiors in authority.
He glanced towards the school-house windows with a mingled feeling of
hatred, revenge and remorse. In that little square adobe hovel was the
woman for whom he would give more than life itself, and down the road
went the man who dared to interfere between him and his dearest object.
The thought that Sister Miles might have witnessed his humiliation
tortured him to the quick, and his first impulse was to wreak summary
vengeance on its cause. But there was rather too much personal risk
about this to render it an attractive expedient just then, and he felt
no doubt of finding his opportunity. On second thought, timid women like
Sister Miles always held their hands over their ears when men quarreled
in their hearing, and refrained from looking at the contestants for fear
of witnessing something shocking. He would go home and wait until school
was dismissed, and then, with whatever result, make a final effort to
bring the pretty widow to terms.
As he turned away he heard the children’s voices singing merrily their
lesson of the State Capitals:— “The Eastern States we first will
mention, six of them in number. The state of Maine, Augusta, on the
Kennebec River,” etc.
This evidence that the teacher was employed with her duties reassured
him and he paused to listen. Ever and anon there was a break in the
singing and the gentle voice of the woman who thus late in life had
enthralled him, came to him like soft thrilling melody. It calmed him.
If she would but say the one word which, in spite of his hopes to the
contrary, he seemed to have a foreboding she would not say, he believed
for the moment that he might feel and actually be at peace with the
world and with himself. He might be able to shift his course from among
the snags and shoals where he had been battling so long, back to the
normal and prudent highway which his father and other men he had once
admired, had traveled without disaster. His thoughts were far from being
well-defined, but he was, at least, half conscious of a plan by which
the “pretty widow,” as Hagar was now commonly called in Zion, was to aid
him in attaining a more comfortable altitude than he then enjoyed. The
“privileges” of the latter-day Gospel had begun to pall upon him at the
time he married Amelia, but since he met the young stranger he had grown
cold and formal with the celestial partners of his joys. Hagar’s
declination of the privileged estate, and the persistency with which she
avoided him, not only gave zest to his pursuit but rendered her in his
eyes a superior being. Had she succumbed like the rest she would have
sunk to their level. It was her fidelity to herself that exalted her.
As he still hesitated between returning home and going into the school
to bring the matter to a crisis there and then, he tried to imagine what
he would do in case of her final and absolute refusal, even after all
the concessions and pledges he was prepared to make. He had noted more
than once when looking into Hagar’s hazel eyes a strange and palpable
likeness to that unhappy woman, Hope Vincent, whom he had deserted, and
who in turn deserted him, driven to distraction by his domestic chaos.
And he now wondered if this gentle creature, who in her gentleness also
was like what Hope had once been, could convey such withering scorn and
disgust in a look, as characterized the last glance Hope ever bent on
him? For that look, as for the woman who gave it, he had thought and
cared nothing heretofore, but both haunted him now; and combat the
superstition as he would he saw in this an evil omen. At length,
impatient and wavering, he obeyed his strongest impulse, entered,
dismissed the school and remained alone with her.
Hagar, who had put on her bonnet and cloak before the last of the
scholars had departed, lingered only to arrange the books and papers on
her desk. She was longing to be gone, and shook with fear.
Langley spoke softly:
“I hope you were not frightened by the incident between Brother Spencer
and myself. Did it startle you? I could not brook his presence here with
you. I know I was wrong to show my anger to the miserable pauper, but
nothing save death can come betwixt you and me! I give you my word, dear
Sister, that nothing of the kind shall happen again, in your presence.”
Hagar was terrified.
She felt insecure in the presence of this giant whom she could not help
regarding as a low and common man, and was trying to frame an evasive
answer to escape an interview she had long been dreading. What could she
say?...She had received, the day previous, a note from Brigham Young’s
Secretary inviting her on behalf of the President to attend a family
party at the “Lion House” this very evening, and she had promised some
of the President’s daughters that she would come soon after school was
dismissed to take supper with them and direct a final rehearsal of their
music before the party began. Here, she thought, was a means of raising
the siege.
“I take little interest in men’s quarrels,” she said, hurriedly closing
her desk, and going to the stove on the pretence of making all secure,
“except to wonder why they are not always settled without resorting to
blows. You must excuse me Bishop Langley; I have promised to go early to
the Lion House to rehearse music for the party to-night. Are there any
directions you wished to give me?”
“Only a minute, Sister, only a minute,” he urged. “I am not here to
direct, but to plead—”
She interrupted him:
“I beg you not to return to that subject. I must go—I cannot hear you.”
He stood between her and the door, without any thought of using force to
prevent her exit, but still determined that she should remain and hear
him.
“Stay one moment, I entreat you!” he exclaimed.
She paused involuntarily, impressed by his singular humility. “You see
before you a miserable, dejected wretch, who loves you, worships you!”
She tried to pass him, saying impatiently:
“Bishop Langley, this is wrong. Let me pass; you are too brave a man to
insult a helpless woman.”
“Too brave? Yes, and for the first time brave enough to love one. You
were not safer at your mother’s breast than here with me. Even if you
reject me, scorn me, denounce me, I swear before Heaven not to come
nearer than I now stand, and to let you pass freely when you have heard
my story.”
“But, if I will not?”
“In pity, you cannot refuse.”
“It will be useless. I can never love you.”
“You love another, then! the President, eh?”
“What folly! No; a thousand times, no.”
“You would not love or marry a polygamist?”
“Never!”
“You do not love this Spencer?”
“Bishop Langley, do you know what you are saying?”
“Full well,” he replied, trying to restrain his eagerness, which was
being wrought up by his emotions.
“You love him, then; he, this pauper stripling, is my rival!”
“You are wrong, I say; I love no man on earth!”
“Well then, your heart is free. Bestow it on him who will prize it most.
The ideal husband is a being who can neither deceive nor suffer
deception; an ideal wife the same, and such a state can only be attained
by those who truly love. But what is love? It is sacrifice. You taught
me the lesson. For you I am prepared to sacrifice everything on
earth!....”
“No, no, Bishop Langley; what you say is all in vain. You have heard me,
my answer will forever be the same; I cannot love you. Therefore desist,
and let me pass!”
“Stay,—stay,” he said, detaining her. “You are more stubborn than
destiny. But love will pierce bronze or adamant, itself; mine shall
pierce you. Listen!” He leant towards her as he spoke, making minute
gestures with one hand upon the other. Hagar paused and regarded him
with pity.
“This cankered life I have led had almost blasted my soul when God sent
an angel to redeem me. I have made a fortune but have no one to share it
with me. I am a lonely beggar doomed to life-long misery unless the
angel reaches her hand to save me. My life is a farce. It is because I
have cared for nobody, have loved nothing, that such an existence has
been tolerable thus long. I loathe it now because I have seen you,
because I worship you. No; do not speak, do not ask to leave me until
you hear what I will do. I have done wrong, gone astray, shown myself a
villain; but I shall be a different man hereafter, I am prepared to
relinquish, to abandon everything that connects me with this loathsome
life!”
“Abandon the wives and children you are bound to provide for and
protect!” exclaimed Hagar, raising her hands in amazement.
“Why not? The law and my conscience approve. I shall not leave them
destitute—no, I can leave them all rich, and have a fortune still for
you. The property I own here will in a few years be worth a thousand
dollars where it is now worth one. They will have more if I go than if I
stay. See, then, it is not only to accept the man that loves you and can
give you everything the world covets, it is to save him and them. When I
wooed you as a Mormon I loved you, but you were not then what you are
now, in my sight. I have suffered, I call God to witness, as few men
suffer in this world, and have thought in bitter agony many a time that
a door of escape might at length be opened to me. You have the power to
open such a door. Have you not the will to save me? Look! you shall
return to your friends and tell them of my words; ask the advice of your
parents, your former pastor or priest, of anybody in whom you have
confidence. I will come to you soon, when I have arranged all here. But
I am lost if you fail me—Oh! say that you pity me, say that you will
save me!”
The Bishop paused, bowing his head on his breast. His passionate appeal
had only served to deepen Hagar’s abhorrence of him. She wondered if he
had not made those protestations in suing for Amelia’s hand: she thought
of his broken vow to his first wife, and her unpitied wretchedness. Her
interest in the situation was mingled with a sense of keen alarm. She
saw that he determined to have an answer, yet she dared not make the one
she wished to give. At length she spoke.
“You must give me time to consider—you shall send me to my friends as
you suggest, and I will consult with them, and follow their advice.”
“There is hollowness and deception in what you say!” he exclaimed. “You
mean to elude me, to betray me. But, no matter! You have heard me—you
know I have spoken the truth—I now leave you to decide as you will. But
remember, I have not told you a tithe of my love; I have not hinted at
the consuming passion you have kindled in my heart. My fate is in your
hands; I must abide your pleasure, even though it be my damnation!...”
“May I pass, then?” asked Hagar, eagerly.
“Yes, I have detained you too long.” said the Bishop, humbly stepping
aside.
Hagar felt a sudden tremor as she flitted by him and out into the wintry
air. She drew her cloak about her and walked on rapidly in the direction
of the Lion House. She lacked the courage to go to Sister Eliza’s to
make any preparations for the party at the President’s. On two points
she was fully determined: Never to return to Bishop Langley’s house; and
not to be seen that evening except by the daughters of the President
with whom she had promised to rehearse their music.
Several minutes elapsed after her exit before the Bishop moved. The
words he had spoken now began to seem like tangible things, and to grate
upon his brain as he recalled them. The incandescent stream of his
fervor began to resolve itself into cold crystals, whose rough edges
scratched his tongue.
Perhaps, after all, he was laboring under a delusion, for was it
possible such flaming protestations could be so rife and willing at one
moment and thus lagging and stubborn the next? He had given her leave to
betray him if she pleased, but there was now about the thought that she
might do so the same nakedness and inquietude as characterised the rest
of the interview in retrospect. Unable to resist the current of his
emotions, anticipation had charmed him onward to the scene he had just
enacted; the moments of its duration had thrilled him with a hitherto
unknown and undefined sensation, akin to that experienced by one who has
staked his all on a die’s cast: but the sequel was unutterably bitter.
He knew that he had lost, yet like the gambler, clung to the hope that
he should still win.
Meanwhile the pretty widow must be forestalled at the President’s. Her
unsupported denunciation would, he thought, count for little against his
record and direct denial. Indeed he felt no doubt of his ability to
ridicule her into silence. But that was not all he desired. He had meant
all he had said to her, and if she chose to slight his magnificent
offer, he must seek to be avenged. He had his doubts about the
practicability of coercion in her case, but knew that the President was
an adept at persuasion, and thought he might count upon his help. He
would, therefore, drive round and have another chat with him.
It was nearly five o’clock, and the mountains were growing dark in the
early dusk of winter, when he drove up to the President’s gate. Having
hitched his horse to the long chain that ran through a line of posts at
the curb-stone, he passed through the narrow gate in the high wall,
asking the elder in the guard-room if Brother Brigham was in his office.
“Yes, he is there waiting for you,” replied the tall, lean elder, with a
cork leg, who was at that time the watch-dog of the palace.
“Waiting for me?” asked the Bishop in surprise.
“Yes, sir,—he sent for you half an hour ago.”
“Then I must have crossed the messenger on my way,” replied the Bishop,
feeling a slight uneasiness as he went in.
He found the President alone. He was seated near a table reading,
habited, as usual, in a loose-fitting black coat, a colored handkerchief
about his neck, spectacles on nose, and on his head rather a broad-
brimmed hat lined with green on the nether side of the rim.
“Well, Brother Edwin,” said the President, familiarly, “You are prompt
enough at obeying a summons, though sometimes slow about coming of your
own accord.”
“Perhaps so, Brother Brigham,” Langley replied, as he shook hands and
took a chair, “but this time I am here of my own accord, for your
messenger has not seen me—I only heard of him at your gate. Anything
special?” He judged by the President’s manner that he had not been sent
for from any unfriendly motive, and felt easier as he asked this
question, quickly followed by:
“Any new development along the Hot Spring road?”
“No, we won’t say anything about that at present. I wanted to have a
word about this pretty widow, Sister Miles. It’s time she was married.”
This last remark was uttered with that superb complacency of which the
Mormon President was so complete a master. Langley was amazed.
“You think so?” he asked, dubiously.
“I am sure of it. You have had a fair chance, but she don’t want you;”
Langley started, and gazed strangely at the President, who went on—“So
I’ve selected a husband for her—” Langley interrupted him.
“Yourself, I suppose?” He did not succeed in wholly concealing the
sneer.
“You guess badly to-day, Brother Edwin. No. Though you have taken a wife
later by some months than I, you want her and I don’t. I mean Brother
Spencer.” His affected urbanity was sufficiently irritating to have
caused the Bishop to insult, if not to strike, a lesser personage. But
he controlled his anger, and said with a forced smile:
“You seem to know all about my wants and the vanity of them, Brother
Brigham. May I ask who has been informing you?”
“Herself. She seems to be a straightforward young woman, and had the
good sense to come straight to headquarters with her grievance. She left
me a few minutes before you came in.”
“What did she say?” asked Langley, with obvious difficulty.
“In effect, that she could not remain any longer at your house and would
never consent to marry you. She’s about the smartest young woman I know
of. She’s pretty, too, and must have come from well-to-do and educated
people. We must go slow with her—especially you, Brother Edwin; she’s
not the kind to be fooled with. I’ve agreed to give her a temporary
home, and if she won’t have Brother Spencer, why I can’t say at present
what I will do.”
“Brother Brigham—you must excuse me—” said Langley rising, but striving
to suppress his agitation, “I have listened as long as I can to this
talk—every word of it is cutting me like a knife. To you I know it’s a
light matter—a good joke—but you see, it’s no joke to me, for I love
that woman; and what’s more, I mean to have her, or no man shall on this
earth!” He raised his clenched fist, his eyes flashed, and his voice
trembled with rage. “Do you prefer to please Spencer rather than me? Can
you so love one on the brink of apostasy, and will she take him at your
request?”—he gave the rein to his feelings.
By this time the President had taken off his spectacles, and was leaning
back in his chair regarding the agitated Bishop with an expression of
blank astonishment.
“Sit down, Brother Edwin,” he presently said, composedly. “You are
getting excited. Sit down. I quite forgot I had not heard your side of
the story.”
This remark had a soothing effect upon the Bishop’s nerves, and he
resumed his chair with a much calmer aspect.
“You asked me so many questions at once,” continued the President, “I
have forgotten them all. Suppose you begin again.”
“The whole matter is summed up in a few words. I don’t want to offend
you, Brother Brigham, as you know well enough; but I love this woman and
shall not submit to any arrangement that deprives me of her. Of course,
so far you can decide between Spencer and me. But whoever my rival may
be, he must reckon with me when all is said and done by other parties.
As to my side of the case, it is simply this: I have told this woman I
love her and want to marry her. She has refused, and comes to you to
repeat her rejection of me; to emphasize it, in short; her coming to you
thus places her much at your discretion: with your aid I believe I can
obtain her consent. If you fail me,—well I’m pretty used to paddle my
own canoe, and—”
“There, there, Edwin,” said the President, interrupting in a persuasive
tone. “Don’t stir up strife. I’ll look into this matter. I don’t care to
bring authority to bear too heavily on Sister Miles even to favor you;
but if you are so terribly in love, I presume I’ll have to think it
over. We may, however, have a reckoning of a new kind if we carry
authority too far with her, for it’s certain she comes of good stock,
and her folks may have influence.”
“If that is all, Spencer can tell you who they are,” the Bishop replied.
“Have you mentioned it to him?”
“Yes, soon after her arrival, but he put me off. I believe he has been
in love with her all along.”
“If he is at his desk ask him to step here a moment.”
Bishop Langley obeyed promptly. He found Spencer busy at his desk in the
inner office. They returned together.
“We are holding a conference on the subject of Sister Miles, and want
your help, brother Charles,” said President Young. “Can you throw any
light on her pedigree, and inform us whether she has any uncles in the
Senate, or cousins in the House? in short who and what her relations may
be? If I remember rightly, you said her father was one of the devil’s
Ministers?”
“He was a parson of the Unitarian persuasion. But she was only his
adopted daughter. I believe she was an orphan, I am not sure.”
“What name, and how much of a following?” asked the President.
“He was called Dr. Taine—” at this name Langley started—“and to judge by
his church—his home and so forth, for I never attended his service,”
continued the Elder, not noticing Langley, “I should say he must have a
rich and numerous following.”
“She was called, Miss Taine then, when you first saw her? What was her
given name? I have never heard it,” asked the President with unconcealed
curiosity.
“I have promised her that I would not mention that,” said Spencer.
“No matter, I must hear it. Come, out with it.”
Spencer paused a moment, the impulse to rebel against the autocrat
rising like a torrent in his heart. He forced it back and answered:
“Her name is Hagar.”
Langley’s cheek, already blanched, grew deadly pale. He repeated the
name in a whisper as he averted his face to conceal for a moment his
intense agony. He wheeled about suddenly to clutch at the last straw of
hope, both of his companions supposing that the frenzy of his passion
was the cause of his strange look.
“When and where did she marry the young officer named Miles?” he asked,
grimly.
“Must I answer?” asked Spencer, addressing Brigham Young.
“Yes. Let’s have the whole story.”
“Well, then, she was never married to such a man. She eloped with a
southern spy named Lamont alias Smiles, and the child she buried on the
plains was his—”
At this moment Langley, who had been pierced as by a dagger at the sound
of her name, sunk upon the floor, crying out in a faint voice:
“Oh! my God!”