supper that was to be served before the wedding. I found that no
special supper had been prepared. It seemed to me a shame to thrust
them down among the water company, the convention, the regulars, and
the transients, and I mentally invited myself to the wedding supper and
began to plan how we could have a little privacy. The carpenters were
at work on a long room off the kitchen that was to be used as
storeroom and pantry. They had gone for the day, and their saw-horses
and benches were still in the room. It was only the work of a moment to
sweep the sawdust away. There was only one window, but it was large and
in the west. It took a little time to wash that, but it paid to do it.
When a few asters and sprays of rabbit-brush were placed in a broken
jar on the window-sill, there was a picture worth seeing. Some planks
were laid on the saw-horses, some papers over them, and a clean white
cloth over all. I sorted the dishes myself; the prettiest the house
afforded graced our table. I rubbed the glassware until it shone almost
as bright as Bishey's smile.
Bishey had come when he could stay away no longer; he and Miss Em'ly
had had their first little talk, so they came out to where I was laying
the table. They were both beaming. Miss Em'ly took hold at once to
help. "Bishey," she commanded, "do you go at once to where my boxes
are open, the one marked 7; bring me a blue jar you'll find in one
corner." He went to do her bidding, and I to see about the kiddies.
When I came back with them, there was a small willow basket in the
center of our improvised table, heaped high with pears, apples, and
grapes all a little the worse for their long journey from New York
State to Wyoming, but still things of beauty and a joy as long as they
lasted to Wyoming eyes and appetites. We had a perfectly roasted leg of
lamb; we had mint sauce, a pyramid of flaky mashed potatoes, a big dish
of new peas, a plate of sponge-cake I will be long in forgetting; and
the blue jar was full of grape marmalade. Our iced tea was exactly
right; the pieces of ice clinked pleasantly against our glasses. We
took our time, and we were all happy. We could all see the beautiful
sunset, its last rays lingering on Miss Em'ly's abundant auburn hair to
make happy the bride the sun shines on. We saw the wonderful
colors--orange, rose, and violet--creep up and fade into darker shades,
until at last mellow dusk filled the room. Then I took the kiddies to
my room to be put to bed while I should wait until time for the
ceremony.
Soon the babies were sleeping, and Jerrine and I went into the
sitting-room. They were sitting on the "sofy." She was telling him that
the apples had come from the tree they had played under, the pears from
the tree they had set out, the grapes from the vine over the well. She
told him of things packed in her boxes, everything a part of the past
they both knew. He in turn told her of his struggles, his successes,
and some of what he called his failures. She was a most encouraging
little person, and she'd say to him, "You did well, Bishey. I'll say
_that_ for you: you did well!" Then he told her about the flowers he
had planted for her. I understood then why he acted so queerly about my
flowers. It happens that I am partial to old-time favorites, and I grow
as many of them as I can get to succeed in this altitude; so I have
zinnias, marigolds, hollyhocks, and many other dear old flowers that my
mother loved. Many of them had been the favorites of Miss Em'ly's
childhood, but Bishey hadn't remembered the names; so he had visited us
all, and when he found a flower he remembered, he asked the name and
how we grew it, then he tried it, until at last he had about all. Miss
Em'ly wiped the tears from her eyes as she remarked, "Bishey, you did
well; yes, you did _real_ well." I thought to myself how well we could
_all_ do if we were so encouraged.
At last the white-haired old justice of the peace came, and said the
words that made Emily Wheeler the wife of Abisha Bennet. A powerfully
noisy but truly friendly crowd wished them well. One polite fellow
asked her where she was from. She told him from New York _State_.
"Why," he asked, "do New Yorkers always say _State_?" "Why, because,"
she answered,--and her eyes were big with surprise,--"_no_ one would
want to say they were from New York _City_."
It had been a trying day for us, so soon Jerrine and I slipped out to
our room. Ours was the first room off the sitting-room, and a long
hallway led past our door; a bench sat against the wall, and it seemed
a favorite roosting-place for people with long discussions. First some
fellows were discussing the wedding. One thought Bishey "cracked"
because he had shipped out an old cooking-stove, one of the first
manufactured, all the way from where he came from, instead of buying a
new one nearer home. They recalled instance after instance in which he
had acted queerly, but to me his behavior was no longer a mystery. I
know the stove belonged somewhere in the past and that his every act
connected past and future. After they had talked themselves tired, two
old fellows took possession of the bench and added a long discussion on
how to grow corn to the general din. Even sweet corn cannot be
successfully grown at this altitude, yet those old men argued pro and
con till I know their throats must have ached. In the sitting-room they
all talked at once of ditches, water-contracts, and sheep. I was _so_
sleepy. I heard a tired clock away off somewhere strike two. Some
sheep-men had the bench and were discussing the relative values of
different dips. I reckon my ego must have gotten tangled with some
one's else about then, for I found myself sitting up in bed foolishly
saying,--
"Two old herders, unshaved and hairy,
Whose old tongues are _never_ weary,
Just outside my chamber-door
Prate of sheep dips for _ever_ more."
Next morning it was Bishey's cheerful voice that started my day. I had
hoped to be up in time to see them off, but I wasn't. I heard him call
out to Mrs. Bishey, "Miss Em'ly, I've got the boxes all loaded. We can
start _home_ in ten minutes." I heard her clear voice reply, "You've
done well, Bishey. I'll be ready by then." I was hurriedly dressing,
hoping yet to see her, when I heard Bishey call out to bluff old
Colonel Winters, who had arrived in the night and had not known of the
wedding, "Hello! Winters, have you met Miss Em'ly? Come over here and
meet her. I'm a married man now. I married Miss Em'ly last night." The
colonel couldn't have known how apt was his reply when he said, "I'm
glad for you, Bishey. You've done well." I peeked between the curtains,
and saw Bishey's wagon piled high with boxes, with Miss Em'ly,
self-possessed and happy, greeting the colonel. Soon I heard the rattle
of wheels, and the dear old happy pair were on their way to the cabin
home they had waited twenty-five years for. Bless the kind old hearts
of them! I'm sure they've both "done well."
XXV
AMONG THE MORMONS
_November, 1913._
MY DEAR FRIEND,--
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 don't 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. Louderer's
head. It was right aggravating, I can tell you, but my visitors were
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy 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. O'Shaughnessy to E----. We should have two days'
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. O'Shaughnessy knew I wanted to visit
Bishop D----, 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. Louderer's 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.
Mr. Beeler is pleasant company, and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy 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 meeting-house, 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 Bishop's 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. O'Shaughnessy remarked that the tallow from those
cattle should be used when the olive oil gave out at their anointings,
because it was the Bishop's 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. O'Shaughnessy comforted me by remarking,
"Well, there ain't a penny's worth of difference in a Mormon bishop and
any other Mormon, and D---- is not the only polygamist by a long shot."
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 "Maw's," he said; so, as Mr. Beeler
expected to stay with a friend of his, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I
determined to see if "Maw" could accommodate us for the night.
Mr. Beeler offered to help the boy get the cattle out, but he said,
"No, 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."
"But," I asked, "isn't that consecrated hay?--isn't it tithing?"
"Yes," he said, "but that won't hurt a bit, only that old John Ladd
always pays his tithe with foxtail hay and it almost ruins Paw's
horses' mouths."
I asked him if his father's stock was supposed to get the hay.
"No, I guess not," he said, "but they are always getting in accidental
like."
We left him to fix the fence so the horses could get in "accidental
like," and drove the short distance to "the next best house."
We were met at the door by a pleasant-faced little woman who hurried us
to the fire. We told her our plight. "Why, certainly you must stay with
me," she said. "I 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 Maudie's bed. Maud is my oldest girl and she has gone
to Ogden to visit, so we have plenty of room."
By now it was quite dark. She lighted a lamp and bustled about,
preparing supper. We sat by the stove and, as Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said,
"noticed."
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 day's 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.
"Mamma," said Kittie, the largest of the little girls, "if Aunt Deb
does buy a new coat and you get her old one, then can I have yours?"
"I don't know," her mother replied; "I should have to make it over if
you did take it. Maybe we can have a new one."
"No, we can't 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. We'll have those to make over."
For the first time I noticed the discontented lines on our hostess's
face, and it suddenly occurred to me that we were in the house of the
Bishop's 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. O'Shaughnessy rather likes to "argufy"; but she had no
argument that night, only her questions started our hostess's 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 wife's; 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 wife's 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
"second," 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 "second." I suppose the "first" thought she would be
rid of the second, who had never really been welcome, although the
Bishop could never have married a "second" without her consent.
"I would _never_ consent," said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy.
"Oh, yes, you would if you had been raised a Mormon," said our hostess.
"You 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."
"Do you expect to go to heaven, and do you think the man who married
you and then discarded you will go to heaven too?" asked Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy.
"Of course I do," she replied.
"Then," said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, "I am afraid if it had been mysilf I'd
have been after raising a little hell here intirely."
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 other's comfort.
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy asked her if she had married again.
She said, "No."
"Then," said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, "whose children are these?"
"My own," she replied.
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy was relentless. "Who is their father?" she asked.
I was right sorry for the poor little woman as she stammered, "I--I
don't know."
Then she went on, "Of course I _do_ know, and I don't believe you are
spying to try to stir up trouble for my husband. Bishop D---- is 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. 'T was
their foolish law that made him wrong the children and me, and _not_
his wishes."
"But," Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said, "it places your children in such a
plight; they can't inherit, they can't even claim his name, they have
no status legally."
"Oh, but the Bishop will see to that," the little woman answered.
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy asked her if she had still to work as hard as she
used to.
"No, I don't believe I do," she said, "for since Mr. D---- has been
Bishop, things come easier. He built this house with his own money, so
Deb has nothing to do with it."
I asked her if she thought she was as happy as "second" as she would be
if she was the _only_ wife.
"Oh, I don't know," she said, "perhaps not. Deb and me don't 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," 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. Beeler's cheerful
voice calling, "All aboard!"
We had just finished breakfast, and few would ever guess that Mrs.
D---- knew 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 "Uncle" or "Aunty" 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. O'Shaughnessy 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 "punchers," 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.
"You need to be _very_ circumspect, Johnny, where females are
concerned, but you mustn't be too danged timid either."
"I don't 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, 'tea or coffee,' and it was the
dangdest mess I ever tried to get outside of."
"Well," the friend counseled, "you just get her into a corner some'eres
and say to 'er, 'Dearest 'Attie, I hoffer you my 'and hand my 'eart.'"
"But I _can't_," wailed Johnny. "I could never get her into a corner
anyway."
"If you can't, you're not hold enough to marry then. What the 'ell
would you do with a woman in the 'ouse if you couldn't corner 'er? I
tell 'e, women 'ave to 'ave a master, and no man better tackle that job
until 'e can be sure 'e can make 'er walk the chalk-line."
"But I don't want her to walk any line; I just want her to speak to
me."
"Dang me if I don't believe you are locoed. Why, she's got 'e throwed
hand 'og-tied now. What d'e want to make it any worse for?"
They talked for a long time and the Englishman continued to have
trouble with his _h_'s; but at last Johnny was encouraged to "corner
'er" 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 friend's 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 "'Attie" blush. The very
indifference with which she treated him argued well for his cause, but
of course he didn't 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. O'Shaughnessy went out to
see her friend Cormac O'Toole. 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.
O'Shaughnessy had hopes, and she is so persuasive that I felt no one
could resist her. There was a drummer at breakfast who kept "cussing"
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. O'Shaughnessy returned, and as the drummer was trying to get
out to E----, 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, "No, madam, I cannot let you ride out with me. I
can't get a rig myself in this beastly place." Then he turned to a man
standing near and remarked, "These Western women are so bold they don't
hesitate to _demand_ favors."
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's eyes fairly snapped, but she said nothing. I think
she took a malicious delight in witnessing the drummer's chagrin when a
few moments later our comfortable sleigh and good strong team appeared.
We were going to drive ourselves, but we had to drive to the depot for
our suit-cases; but when we got there the ticket-office was not open,
so the agent was probably having his beauty sleep. There was a fire in
the big stove, and we joined the bunch of men in the depot. Among them
we noticed a thin, consumptive-looking fellow, evidently a stranger.
Very soon some men began talking of some transaction in which a Bishop
B---- was concerned. It seemed they didn't admire the Bishop very much;
they kept talking of his peculiarities and transgressions, and
mentioned his treatment of his wives. His "second," they said, was
blind because of cataracts, and, although abundantly able, he left her
in darkness. She had never seen her two last children. Some one spoke
up and said, "I thought polygamy was no longer practiced." Then the man
explained that they no longer contracted plural marriages, but that
many kept _all_ their wives and B---- still had both of his. He went on
to say that although such practice is contrary to law, it was almost
impossible to make a case against them, for the women would not swear
against their husbands. B---- had been arrested once, but his second
swore that she didn't know who her children's father was, and it cost
the sheriff his office the next election.