From Putnam's Monthly.
THE MORMON'S WIFE.
"'Woe to that man', his warning voice replied
To all who question'd, or in silence sighed—
'Woe to that man who ventures truth to win,
And seeks his object by the path of sin!'"
SCHILLER.
"I don't think much my young friend, of those Mormons! I have had some reasons of my own for disliking them!" said Parson Field to me, as we sat together, one August noon, in the porch of his red house at Plainfield.
"Do tell me, sir," said I, settling myself in an easy attitude to hear his story—for a story from Parson Field was not to be despised—his quaint simplicity bringing out, in old time and expressive phrases, whatever he describes with the clear fidelity of an interior by Mieris. "Do tell me," said I again, with a deeper emphasis; whereat the old gentleman looked at me over his spectacles, and, smiling benignantly into my eager face, began:
"When I first came to Plainfield," said he, "more than thirty years ago, I had been a min-ister of the Lord only ten years, and I had been settled for that period of time in a large city, where I served acceptably to a worthy congregation; but certain reasons of my own induced me to leave that situation, and come here to live, where also I found acceptance, and not many months after I came, there was a considerable reviving of the work in this place, and many believed." Of these there was a cer-tain Joseph Frazer, a young Scotchman, con-cerning whom I felt much misgiving, lest he should take the wrong path, but he, in due season, joined himself to the church, and ed-ified the brethren in walk and conversation; so that when he left Plainfield and settled in the West Indies, we were loth to have him go.
"Some years afterwards we heard he was married there to a lady of Spanish extraction, and a Catholic; and, after ten years elapsed, she died, leaving him one child, a daughter, eight years of age, and with her he came to Plain-field, desiring that the child, whom he had named Adeline, after his own mother, should have a New England training.
"But, wonderful are the ways of Providence! On his return to Cuba, he perished in the ves-sel, which went down in a heavy gale off Cape Hatteras; and when the news came to his moth-er, old Mrs. Frazer, she sent for me that I should tell the child Adeline, for she had given proofs of a singular nature, ardent and self-confident in the extreme. I took my hat, and went over to Mrs. Frazer's with a very heavy heart, for the grief of a child is a fearful thing to me, and to be the bringer of evil tidings, that should stain the pureness and calm of a child's thoughts with the irreparable shadow of death, is no light thing, nor easily to be done. I entered into the house one day in June; it was a very sweet day, and, as I walked quiet-ly into the low kitchen, I saw Adeline, with her head resting on her hands, and her large eyes eagerly gazing out of the window at the gambols of a scarlet-throated humming-bird. I went close to her, and thought to myself that I would speak, but I did not, for I saw that, in her little pale face, which made me more sad than before; and I had it on my lips to say, 'Adeline, are you home-sick?' (which was the thing of all others I should not say) when sud-denly she turned about, and answered the ques-tion before I spoke it.
"'Sir,' said she, 'I wish I was in Cuba. I had just such a humming-bird at home; and I fed it with orange boughs full of white flowers, every day; but you have no orange trees here, and I have no papa!'
"It seemed to me that the child's angel had thus opened the way for me to speak, and I be-gan to say some things about the love of our universal Father, when she laid her little hand on my arm with a fearfully strong pressure.—‘Mr. Field,' said she, 'is my papa dead?' I never shall forget the eyes that looked that question into mine. I felt like an unveiled spirit before their eager, piercing stare. I did not answer except by a strong quiver of feeling that would run over my features, for I loved her father even as a kinsman, and I needed to say nothing more, for the child fell at my feet quite rigid, and I called Mrs. Frazer, who tried all her nurse-arts to restore little Adeline; but was forced, at last, to send for a physician, who bled the child, and brought her round.
"In the mean time I had gone home to pre-pare my sermon, for it was not yet finished, and the day was Friday; but I kept seeing that little lifeless face, all orphaned as it was, and the scripture, 'As one whom his mother com-forteth,' was so borne in upon my mind, that although I had previously fixed upon one adapt-ed to a setting forth of the doctrine of elec-tion, I was wrought upon to make the other the subject of my discourse: and truly the peo-ple wept; almost all but Adeline, who sat in the square pew with her great eyes fixed upon me, and her small lips apart, like one who drinks from the stream of a rock.
"The next day I was resting, as my custom is, after the Sabbath: and in a warm, fair day, I find no better rest than to sit by the open window, and breathe the summer air, and fill my eyes and heart with the innumerable love-tokens that God hath set thickly in Nature. I was, therefore, at my usual place, wrapt in thought, and beholding the labors of a small bird which taught her young to fly, when I felt a light, cold touch, and, turning, saw little Adeline beside me. 'Sir,' said she, without any preface, 'when my papa went away, he left with me a letter, which he said I was to give you if he died.' So far she spoke steadily, but there the small voice quivered and broke down. I took the letter she proffered me, and, breaking the seal, found it a short but touching appeal to me, as the spiritual father of Joseph Frazer, to take his own child under my care, and be as a father to her, inasmuch as his mother was old and feeble, and also to be ex-ecutor of his will, of which a copy was enclos-ed. I said this much to the child as shortly as I could, and with her grave voice she replied, 'Sir, I should like to be your little girl, if you will preach me some more sermons.' Now I was affected at this answer; not the less that the leaven of pride, which worketh in every man, was fed by even a baby's praise; and, put-ting on my hat, I walked over to Mrs. Frazer's house and laid the matter before her. She was not, at first, willing to give Adeline up, but at length, after much converse to and fro, she came to my conclusion, that the child would be better in my hands, inasmuch as she her-self could not hope for a long continuance: and, as it was ordered, she died the next summer. I sent for my sister Martha, who was somewhat past marriageable years, but kind and good, to come and keep house for me, and from that time Adeline was as my own child. But I must hasten over a time, for I am too long in telling this.
"In course of years the child grew up, tall and slender, of a very stately carriage, and hav-ing that scriptural glory of a woman, long and abundant hair.
"She was still very fervid in her feelings, but reserved and proud, and I fear I had been too tender with her for her good, inasmuch as she thought her own will and pleasure must al-ways be fulfilled, and we all know that is not one of the ordinations of Providence.
"As Adeline came to be a woman, divers youths of my congregation were given to call of a Sabbath night, with red apples for me, and redder cheeks for Adeline, who was scarce-ly civil to them, and often left them to my con-versation, which they seemed not to relish so much as would have been pleasing to human nature.
"But my sainted mother, who was not want-ing in the wisdom of this world, was used to say that every man and woman had their time of crying for the moon, and while some knew it to be a burning fire, and scornfully called it cheese, and if they got it, either burned their fingers, or despised their desire, still all gen-erations must have their turn, and truly, I be-lieved it, when I found that Adeline herself be-gan to have a pining for something which I could not persuade her to specify. The child grew thin and pale, and ceased the singing of psalms at her daily task, and I could not de-vise what should be done for her; though Mar-tha strongly recommended certain herb teas, which Adeline somewhat unreasonably rebell-ed against. However, about this time, my at-tention was a little turned from her, as there was much religious awakening in the place, and among others, whom the deacons singled out as special objects of attention, was one John Henderson, a frequent visitor at our house, and a young man of good parts and kindly feeling, as it seemed, but of a peculiar nature, being easily led into right or wrong, yet still given to fits of stubbornness, so he could not be drawn, so to speak, with a cart-rope.
"Now, Adeline had been a professor of re-ligion for some years, but it did not seem to me that she took a right view of this particular season, for many times she refused to go to the prayer-meeting, even to those which were held with special intentions toward the uncon-verted; and many times, on my return, I found her with pale cheeks and red eyes, evi-dently from tears. About this time, also, she began to take long, solitary walks, from which she returned with her hands full of wild flow-ers, for it was now early spring; but she cared nothing about the flowers, and would scatter them about the house to fade, without a thought In the mean time, the revival progressed, but, I lament to say, with no visible change in John Henderson. He had gotten into one of his stubborn moods of mind, and neither heaven nor hell seemed to affect him. The only soft-ening I could perceive in the young man was during the singing of hymns, which was well done in our meeting-house, for Adeline led the choir, and I noticed that, whenever that part of the exercises began, John Henderson would lift up his head, and a strange color and tender expression seemed to melt the hard lines of his face.
"Somewhere about the latter end of April, as I was returning from a visit to a sick man, I met John coming from a piece of woods, that lay behind my house about a mile, with his hands full of liverwort blossoms. I do not know why this little circumstance gave me comfort, yet I have observed that a man who loves the manifestations of God in his works is more likely to be led into religion than a brutal or a mere business man: so I was de-sirous of speaking to the youth, but when he saw me he turned from the straight path, and, like an evil-doer, fled across the fields another way. I did not call after him, for some expe-rience has constrained me to think that there is no little wisdom in sometimes letting people alone, but I took my own way home, and, having put on my cloth shoes to ease my feet, and being in somewhat of a maze of thought, I went up to my study, as it seemed, very quietly, for I entered at the open door and found Adeline sitting in my arm-chair by the window, quite unaware of my nearness. I well remember how like a spirit she looked that day, with her great eyes raised to a cloud that rested in the bright sky, her soft black hair twisted into a crown about her head, and her light dress falling all over the chair, while in her hands, lying between the slight fingers, and by the bluer veins, was clasped a bunch of liverwort blossoms. Then I perceived, for the first time, why my child was crying for the moon, and that John Henderson cared for the singing and not for the hymns, at which I sor-rowed. But I sat down by Ada, and taking the flowers out of her cold hands, began to say that I had met John Henderson on the road with some such blossoms, at which she looked at me even as she did when I told her about her father, and seeing that I smiled, and yet was not dry-eyed, nor quite at rest, the tears began slowly to run over her eye-lashes, and in a few very resolute words she told me that Mr. Henderson had asked her that morning to marry him.
"Now, I knew not well what to say, but I set myself aside, as far as I could, and tried not to remember how sore a trial it would be to part with Ada, and I reasoned with her calmly about the youth, setting forth, first, that he was not a professing Christian, and that the Scripture seemed plain to me on that matter, though I would not constrain her con-science if she found it clear in this thing; and second, that he was a man who held fast to this world's goods, and was like to be a fol-lower of Mammon if he learned not to love better things in his youth; and third, that he was a man who had, as one might say, a streak of granite in his nature, against which a feel-ing person would continually fall and be hurt, and which no person could work upon, if once it came in the way even of right action. To all this Adeline answered with more reason than I supposed a woman could, only that I noticed, at the end of each answer, she said in a low voice, as if it were the end of all conten-tion—'and I love him.' Whereby, seeing that the thing was well past my interference, I gave my consent, with many doubts and fears in my heart, and, having blessed the child, I sent her away, that I might meditate over this matter.
"When John came in the evening for his answer, I was enabled to exhort him faithfully, and, in his softened state of feeling, he chose to tell me that he had been seeking religion because he feared I would not give him Ade-line unless he were joined to the church, and he could not make a hypocrite of himself, even for that, but he had hoped that in the use of means he might be awakened and converted. At this I was pleased, inasmuch as it showed a spirit of truth in the young man, but I could not avoid setting before him that self-seeking had never led any soul to God, and how cogent a reason he had himself given for his want of success in things pertaining to his salvation; but as I spoke Ada came in by the other door, and John’s eyes began to wander so visibly that I thought it best to conclude, and I must say he appeared grateful. So I went out of the door, leaving Ada stately and blushing as a fair rose-tree, notwithstanding that John Henderson seemed to fancy she needed his support.
"As the year went on, and I could not in conscience let Adeline leave me until her lover had some fixed maintenance, I had many con-versations with him, (for he also was an orphan,) and it was at length decided that he should buy, with Ada's portion, a goodly farm in Western New York; and in the ensuing summer, after a year's engagement, they were to marry. So the summer came; I know not exactly what month was fixed for their mar-riage, though I have the date somewhere, but one thing I recollect, that the hop-vine over this porch was in full bloom, and after I had joined my child and the youth in the bands of wedlock, I went out into the porch to see them safe into the carriage that was to take them to the boat, and there Ada put her arms about my neck, and kissed me for good-by, leaving a hot tear upon my cheek; and a south wind at that moment smote the hop-vine so that its odor of honey and bitterness mingled swept across my face, and always afterward this scent made me think of Adeline. After two years had passed away, during which we heard from her often, we heard that she had a little daughter born, and her letters were full of joy and pride, so that I trembled for the child’s spiritual state; but after some three years the girl, with her mother, came to Plainfield, and I did not know but Adeline was excusable in her joy, for such a fair and bright child was scarcely ever seen; but the next summer came sad news: little Nelly was dead, and Ada's grief seemed inexhaustible, while her husband fell into one of his sullen states of mind, and the affliction passed over them to no good end, as it seemed.
"Soon after this, the Mormon delusion be-gan to spread rapidly about John Henderson's dwelling-place, and in less than a year after Nelly's death I had a letter from Ada, dated at St. Louis, which I will read to you, for I have it in my pocket-book, having retained it there since yesterday, when I took it out from the desk to consult a date. It begins:
"'DEAR UNCLE'—(I had always instructed the child so to call me, rather than father, see-ing we can have but one father, while we may be blessed with numerous uncles)—'I suppose you will wonder how I came to be at St. Louis, and it is just my being here that I write to ex-plain. You know how my husband felt about Nelly's death, but you cannot know how I felt; for, even in my very great sorrow, I hoped all the time that by her death John might be led to a love of religion. He was very unhappy, but he would not show it, only that he took even more tender care of me than before. I have always been his darling and pride; he never let me work, because he said it spoiled my hands; but after Nelly died he was hardly willing I should breathe; and though he never spoke of her, or seemed to feel her loss, yet I have heard him whisper her name in his sleep, and every morning his hair and pillow were damp with crying; but he never knew I saw it. After a few months there came a Mormon preacher into our neighborhood—a man of a great deal of talent and earnestness, and a firm believer in the revelation to Joseph Smith. At first my husband did not take any notice of him, and then he laughed at him for being a believer in what seemed like nonsense; but one night he was persuaded to go and hear Brother Marvin preach in the school-house, and he came home with a very sober face. I said nothing, but when I found there was to be a meeting the next night, I asked to go with him, and, to my surprise, I heard a most pow-erful and exciting discourse, not wanting in either sense or feeling, though rather poor as to argument; but I was not surprised that John wanted to hear more, nor that, in the course of a few weeks, he avowed himself a Mormon, and was received publicly into the sect. Dear Uncle, you will be shocked, I know, and you will wonder why I did not use my influence over my husband, to keep him from this delu-sion; but you do not know how much I have longed and prayed for his conversion to a re-ligious life, until any religion, even one full of errors, seemed to me better than the hardened and listless state of his mind.
"'I could not but feel that if he were awakened to a sense of the life to come, in any way, his own good sense would lead him right in the end; and there is so much ardor and faith about this strange belief, that I do not regret his having fallen in with it, for I think the true burning of Gospel faith will yet be kindled by means of this strange fire. In the mean time he is very eager and full of zeal for the cause—so much so that, thinking it to be his duty, he resolved to sell our farm at Oak-wood and remove to Utah. If anything could make me grieve over a change I believe to be for John's spiritual good, it would be this idea; but no regret or sorrow of mine shall ever stand in the way of his soul; so I gave as cheerful a consent as I could to the sale, and I only cried a few tears over little Nelly's bed, under the great tulip tree. There my husband has put an iron railing, and I have planted a great many sweet briar vines over the rock; and Mr. Keeney, who bought the farm, has promised that the spot shall be kept free from weeds, so I leave her in peace. Do write to me, Uncle Field. I feel sure I have done right, because it has not been in my own way; yet sometimes I am almost afraid. I shall be very far away from you, and from home, and my child, but I am so glad now she is in heaven, nothing can trouble her, and I shall not much care about myself, if John goes right.
"'Give my love to Aunt Martha, and please write to your dear child. ADA HENDERSON.'
"I need not say, my young friend," resumed Parson Field, wiping his spectacles, and clear-ing his voice with a vigorous ahem! "that I could not, in conscience, approve of Adeline's course. 'Thou shalt not do evil that good may come,' is a Gospel truth, and cannot be transgressed with good consequences. I did write to Ada; but, inasmuch as the act was done, I said not much concerning it, but bade her take courage, seeing that she had meant to do right, although in the deed she had con-sidered John Henderson before anything else, which was, as you may perceive, her besetting sin, and therefore it seemed good to me to put at the end of my epistle (as I was wont always to offer a suitable text of Scripture for her meditation) these words, 'Little children, keep yourselves from idols!' I did not hear again from Adeline till she had been two months in the Mormon city, and though she tried her best to seem contented and peaceful, in view of John's new zeal, and his tender care of her, still I could not but think of the hop-blossoms, for I perceived, underneath this present sweet-ness, a little drop of life and pain working to some unseem end. That year passed away and we heard no more, and the next also, at which I wondered much; but, reflecting on the chances of travel across those deserts, and having a surety of Ada's affection for me, I did not re-pine, though I felt some regret that there was such uncertainty of carriage; nevertheless, I wrote as usual, that no chance might be lost.
"The third summer was unusually warm in our parts, and its heats, following upon a long, wet spring, caused much and grievous sick-ness, and I was obliged to be out at all hours with the dying, and at funerals, so that my bodily strength was well nigh exhausted, and at haying-time, just as I was cutting the last swarth on my river meadow, which is low-lying land, and steamed with hot vapor as I laid it bare to the sun, I fell forward across my scythe-snath and fainted. This was the beginning of a long course of fever, of a typhoid character, during which I was either stupid or delirious most of the time, and, while I lay sick, there came a letter to me from Salt Lake City, written chiefly by John Henderson, who begged me to come on, if it was a possible thing, and see his wife, who was wasting with a slow consumption, and much bent upon see-ing me. I could discern that the letter was not willingly written; it was stiff in speech, though writ with a trembling hand. At the end of it were a few lines from Ada herself; a very impatient and absolute cry for me, as if she could not die till I came. Now Martha had opened this letter, as she was forced to by my great illness, and, having read it, asked the doctor if it was well to propound the con-tents to me, and he said decidedly that he could not answer for my life if she did: so Martha, like a considerate woman, wrote an answer herself to John Henderson, (of which she kept a copy for me to see,) setting forth that I was in no state to be moved with such tidings; that, however, I should have the let-ter as soon as the doctor saw fit; and sending her love and sympathy to Ada, and a recom-mend that she should try balm tea.
"After a long season of suspense, I was gra-ciously uplifted from fever, and enabled to leave my bed for a few hours daily; and, when I could ride out, which was only by the latter end of October, I was given the child's letter, and my heart sank within me, for I knew how bitterly she had needed my strength to help her. It was a warm autumn day, near to noon, when I read that letter, and, as I leaned back in my chair, the red sunshine came in upon me, and the smell of dead leaves, while upon the hop-vine one late blossom, spared by the white frosts, and dropping across the win-dow, also put forth its scent, bringing Adeline, as it were, right back into my arms, and the faintness passed away from me with some tears, for I was weak, and a man may not always be stronger than his nature. Now, when Martha sounded the horn for dinner, and our hired man came in from the hill lot, where he was sowing wheat, I saw that he had a let-ter in his hand of great size and thickness; and, coming into the keeping-room where I sat, he said that 'Squire White had brought it over from the post-office as he came along, thinking I would like to have it directly. I was rather loth to open the great packet at first, for I bethought myself it was likely to be some Consociation proceedings, which were never otherwise than irksome to me, and were now weary to think of, seeing the grasshopper had become a burden. I reached my specta-cles down from the nail, and found the post-mark to be that of the Mormon city; and, with unsteady hand, I opened the seal, and found within several sheets of written letter-paper, directed to me in Ada's writing, and a short letter from John Henderson, which ran thus:
“‘DEAR SIR: My first wife, Adeline Frazer Henderson, departed this life on the sixth of July, at my house in the city of Great Salt Lake. Shortly before dying, she called upon me, in the presence of two sisters and one of the Saints, to deliver into your hands the in-closed packet, and tell you of her death. Ac-cording to her wish I send the papers by mail; and, hoping you may yet be called to be a par-taker in the faith of the saints below, I remain your afflicted but rejoicing friend,
"'JOHN HENDERSON.'
"I was really stunned for a moment, my young friend, not only with grief at my own loss, but with pity and surprise at the entire deadening, as it appeared, of natural affection in the man to whom I had given my daughter; and also my conscience was not free from offense, for I could not but think that a more fervent and wrestling expostulation on the sin of marrying an unbeliever, might have saved Adeline from sorrow in the flesh. However, I said as much as seemed best at the time, and upon that reflection I rested myself, for he who adheres to a pure intention need not re-pent of his deeds afterward; and the next day, when my present anguish and weakness had somewhat abated, I read the manuscript Ada had sent me.
"It was, doubtless, penned with much re-luctance, for the child's natural pride was great, and no less weighty subject than her husband's salvation could have forced her to speak of what she wrote for me; and, indeed, I should feel no right to put the confidence into your hands, were not my child beyond the reach of man's judgment, and did I not feel it a sacred duty to protest, so long as life lasts, against this abominable Mormon delusion, and the no less delusive pretext of doing evil that good may come. I cannot read Ada's letter aloud to you, for there is to be a funeral at two o'clock, which I must attend; but I will give you the papers, and you may sit in my chair and read; only, be patient with my bees, if they come too near you, for they like the hop-blossoms, and never sting unless you stake."
So saying, Parson Field gave me his leathern chair and the papers, and I sat down in the hop-crowned porch, to read Adeline Hender-son's story, with a sort of reverence for her that prompted me to turn the rustling pages carefully, and feel startled if a door swung to in the quiet house, as if I were eaves-dropping; but soon I ceased to hear, absorbed in her let-ter, which began as the first did:
"DEAR UNCLE: To-day I begged John to write, and ask you to come here. I could not write you since I came here but that once, though your letters have been my great com-fort, and I added a few words of entreaty to his, because I am dying, and it seems as if I must see you before I die; yet I fear the letter may not reach you, or you may be sick; and for that reason I write now, to tell you how terrible a necessity urged me to persuade you to such a journey. I can write but little at a time, my side is so painful; they call it slow consumption here, but I know better; the heart within me is turned to stone; I felt it then—--Ah! you see my wind wandered in that last line; it still will return to the old theme, like a fugue tune, such as we had in the Plainfield singing-school. I remember one that went, 'The Lord is just, is just, is just.' Is He? Dear Uncle, I must begin at the be-ginning, or you never will know. I wrote you from St. Louis, did I not? I meant to. From there we had a dreary journey—not so bad to Fort Leavenworth, but after that inexpressi-bly dreary, and set with tokens of the dead, who perished before us. A long reach of prairie, day after day, and night after night; grass, and sky, and graves; grass, and sky, and graves; till I hardly knew whether the life I dragged along was life or death, as the thirsty, feverish days, wore on into the awful and breathless nights, when every creature was dead asleep, and the very stars in heaven grew dim in the hot, sleepy air. Dreadful days! I was too glad to see that bitter inland sea, blue as the resh lakes, with its gray islands of bare rock, and sparkling sand-shores; still more rejoiced to come upon the city itself—the rows of quaint, bare houses, and such cool water-sources, and over all, near enough to rest both eyes and heart, the sun-lit mountains, 'the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.'
"I liked my new house well. It was too large for our need, but pleasanter for its airi-ness, and the first thing I did was to plant a little hop-vine, that I had brought all the way with such great care, by the east porch. I wanted something like Plainfield in my home. I don't know why I linger so; I must write faster, for I grow weak all the time.
"I liked the city very well for a while; the neighbors were kind, and John more than that; I could not be unhappy with him----I thought. We had a pretty garden, for an-other man had owned the house before us, and we had not to begin everything. Our next door neighbor, Mrs. Colton, was good and kind to me; so was her daughter Lizzy—a pretty girl, with fair hair, very fair. I won-der John liked it, after mine. The first great shock I had was at a Mormon meeting. I can-not very well remember the ceremony, because I grow so faint; but I would not faint away, lest some one should see me. I only remem-ber that it was Mrs. Colton's husband with another wife being 'sealed' to him, as they say here. You don't know what that means, Un-cle Field; it is one part of this religion of Satan that any man may have, if he will, three or four wives—perhaps more. I only know that shameless man, with grown daughters, and the hair on his head snow-white, has taken two, and his own wife, a firm believer in this----faith! looks on calmly, and lives with them in peace. I know that, and my soul sickened with disgust, but I did not fear; not a thought, not a dream, not a shadow of fear crossed me. I should have despised myself forever if the idea had stained my soul; my husband was my husband—mine, before God and man! and our child was in heaven; how glad I was she could never be a Mormon!
"I was sorry for Mrs. Colton, though she did not need it, and when I saw John leaning over their gate, or smoking in the porch with the old man, I thought he felt so, too, and I was glad to see him more sociable than ever he was in the States. After awhile he did not smoke, but talked with Elder Colton, and then would come home and expound out of the Book of Mormon to me. I was very glad to have him in earnest in his religion, but I could not be. Then he grew very thoughtful, and had a silent fit, but I took no notice of it, though I think now he meant to leave me; but I began to pine a little for home, and when I worked in the garden, and trained the vines about our veranda, I used to wish he would help me as he did Lizzy Colton, but still I re-membered how good he was to pity and help them.
"O, fool! yet I had rather be a fool over again than have imagined—that I am glad of, even now—I did not once suspect.
"But one day—I remember every little thing in that day, even the slow ticking of the clock as I tied up my hop-vine; and after that I went into the garden, and sat down on a little bench under the grape-trellis, and looked at the mountains. How beautiful they were! all purple in the shadow of sunset, and the sky golden green above them, with one scarlet cloud floating slowly upward: I hope I shall never see a red cloud again. Presently, John came and sat by me, and I laid my head on his shoulder; I was so glad to have him there—it cured my home-sickness; once or twice he began to say something, and stopped, but I did not mind it. I wanted him to see a low line of mist creeping down a canon in the mountains, and I stood up to point it out; so he rose too, and in a strange, hurried way, be-gan to say something about the Mormon faith, and the duties of a believer, which I did not notice either very much—I was so full of ad-miring the scarlet cloud—when, like a sudden thunder-clap at my ear, I heard this quick, resolute sentence: 'And so, according to the advice and best judgment of the Saints, Eliza-beth Colton will be sealed to me, after two days, as my spiritual wife.'
“Then my soul fled out of my lips in one cry—I was dead—my heart turned to a stone, and nothing can melt it! I did not speak, or sigh, but sat down on the bench, and John talked a great deal; I think he rubbed my hands and kissed me, but I did not feel it. I went away, by and by, when it was dark, into the house and into my room. I locked the door and looked at the wall till morning; then I went down and sat in a chair till night; and I drank, drank, drank, like a fever—all the time cold water, but it never reached my thirst. John came home, but he did not dare touch me; I was a dead corpse, with another spirit in it—not his wife—she was dead, and gone to heaven on a bright cloud. I remember being glad of that.
"In two days more he had a wife, and I was not his any longer. I staid up stairs when he was in the house, and locked my door, till, after a great many days, I began to feel sorry for him. O, how sorry! for I knew—I know—he will see himself some day with my eyes, but not till I die. Then I found my lips full of blood one morning, and that pleased me, for I knew it was a promise of the life to come: now I should go to heaven, where there aren't any Mormons.
"I believe, though, people were kind to me all the time; for I remember they came and said things to me, and one shook me a little to see if I felt, and one woman cried. I was glad of that, for I couldn't cry. However, after three months I was better: worse, John said one day, and he brought a doctor, but the man knew as well as I did—so he said nothing at all, and gave me some herb tea: tell Aunt Martha that.
"Then I could walk out of doors, but I did not care to; only once I smelt the hop blos-soms, and that I could not bear, so I went out and pulled up my hop-vine by the roots, and laid it out, all straight, in the fierce sunshine: it died directly. In the winter John had an-other wife sealed to him; I heard somebody say so; he did not tell me, and if he had I could not help it. I found he had taken a little adobe house for those two, and I knew it was out of tenderness for my feelings he did so. O, Uncle Field! perhaps he has loved me all this time? I know better, though, than that! Spring came, and I was very weak, and I grew not to care about anything; so I told John he could bring those two women to this house if he wished: I did not care, only no-body must ever come into my room. He looked ashamed, and pleased, too; but he brought them, and nobody ever did come into my room. By-and-by Elizabeth Colton brought a little baby down stairs, and its name was Clara. Poor child! poor little Mormon child! I hope it will die some time before it grows up; only I should not like it to come my side of heaven, for it had blue eyes like John’s.
"Then I grew more and more ill, and now I am really dying, and no letter has come from you! It takes so long—three whole months—and I have been more than a year in the house with John Henderson and the two women. I know I shall never see you, but I must speak. I must, even out of the grave; and I keep hear-ing that old fugue, 'The Lord is just, is just, is just; the Lord is just and good!' Is He? I know He is; but I forget sometimes. Uncle Field! you must pray for John! you must! I cannot die and leave him in his sins, his de-lusion: he does not think it is sin, but I know it. Pray! pray! dear Uncle; don't be dis-couraged—do not fear—he will be undeceived some time; he will repent, I know! The Lord is just, and I will pray in heaven, and I will tell Nelly to; but you must. It says in the Bible, 'The prayer of a righteous man;' and O, I am not righteous! I should not have mar-ried him; it was an unequal yoke, and I have borne the burden; but I loved him so much! Uncle Field, I did not keep myself from idols. Pray! I shall be dead, but he lives. Pray for him, and, if you will, for the little child—be-cause—I am dying. Dear Nelly!—"
"Are you blotting my letter, young man?" said Parson Field, at my elbow, as I deciphered the last broken, trembling line, of Ada's story. "Here I have been five minutes, and you did not hear me!" I really had blotted the letter!
