An Englishwoman in Utah. Mrs. T. B. H. Stenhouse
only weep tears of joy, and sing aloud my praise to God.
Madame Balif entered the room early in the morning to see what kind of a night we had passed. Then I drew her to the bedside, and told her how tranquilly the child had slept all night, and showed her how much better she looked, and asked her if she did not see in all this the providence of God. But she simply said, “Ah, well! I suppose the disease had run its course.” This grieved me, for I had trusted that such a direct answer to my prayers would have helped to increase her faith in our religion; but Mormonism had not touched her heart; and I believe it is much more the devotion of the heart than it is the mental acquiescence in doctrine which gives us the power to hope, and endure, and believe.
When, by-and-by, my little Clara awoke, she was evidently very much better, and not only free from the fever, but bright and cheerful, like her former self; and she never relapsed. In the course of a week she was running about as well as ever, and the Saints were greatly confirmed in their faith.
One morning, not long after this, Madame Balif brought me a letter which, as it bore the English postmark, she supposed came from my husband. The writing, however, was strange to me; and dreading that some terrible thing might have happened, I tore it open. There, at the bottom of the last page—for the letter was very long—in neat, clear characters, was the signature of my fairy friend, as I called her, Mary Burton. I read the letter through with the deepest interest. It was addressed “To darling Sister Stenhouse,” and was overflowing with affection. Used as I was to all her endearing ways, I could almost fancy that while I read I heard her speaking the words. After a great outpouring of love, she said—
“Since you went, I have grown quite an old woman. You used to call me ‘Little fairy,’ but, Sister Stenhouse, I am much bigger now. I am now a good deal over seventeen, and people say that I am getting to be quite a woman. I might tell you some other pretty things that are said about me, but I’m afraid you would say it was all vanity of vanities. If you stay away much longer, you won’t recognize me when we meet again.
“And now I want to tell you something that interests you as much as me. I have not been able to discover anything more with certainty about those hateful things of which I told you, although the word Polygamy seems to me to become every day much more familiar in people’s conversation. Elder Shrewsbury tells me that there is not a word of truth in it; and he has had a good deal of conversation upon that subject with the apostles who are here, and also with a man named Curtis E. Bolton—an Elder from the Salt Lake; and they all positively declare that it is a foul slander upon the Saints of the Most High. So you see that all our unhappiness was for naught. Our Saviour said we should be blessed when all men spoke evil of us falsely for His name’s take; and the wicked scandal which has been raised against our religion has had a tendency to strengthen my faith, which you know was rather wavering.
“And yet do you know, Sister Stenhouse, that even while I am writing to you in this strain, I am weak enough to allow doubts and fears to creep into my heart when I think of the conduct of some of the American brethren.
“They appear to me, for married men, to act so very imprudently; and to call their conduct ‘imprudent’ is really treating it with the greatest leniency, for I have often been quite shocked at the way in which some of the brethren and sisters acted. But I will tell you a little about it, and you shall judge for yourself.
“When I found out, as I had long suspected, that dear papa was going to marry again, I at once resolved that I would no longer be a burden to him, but would find some employment, and support myself. I was induced to do this, partly because as you know, step-mothers and daughters do not always love each other quite as much as they might. So I communicated my wishes to papa, and told him that I had been introduced to a very nice lady, who had a large dressmaking establishment at the west end of London. She is a member of the Church, and has always been very highly spoken of. I told him that she employed a number of highly respectable young girls, and that four, at least, of them were members of the Church, and that, in consideration of my lonely situation, and at the earnest request of Elder Shrewsbury, she was willing to take me into her house, to board and lodge me, and teach me the business thoroughly, if my father would pay her a premium of fifty pounds.
“This papa readily agreed to do, as I expected he would, for he is so taken up with my step-mamma that is to be; and beside which he has, I know, been unfortunate lately in some railway speculations, and has lost a great deal of money, and therefore wishes to economize. In this way I went to London, and became a member of Mrs. Elsworth’s family—and here I am still.
“Now you have been in London, Sister Stenhouse, and must remember ‘the office’ in Jewin Street—the head-quarters where all the elders congregate, and where the American elders board, and church business is managed. Well, the very first week I was at Mrs. Elsworth’s I noticed that the four young sisters who were working there were constantly talking of Jewin Street, and the dear American brethren who were stopping there. One of them in particular was always talking about dear Elder Snow; and another girl whispered to me that she went to Jewin Street every evening, and frequently remained there to tea with him, and went afterwards to the theatre with him, or to a meeting, as the case might be; and the young lady added, ‘She does make such a fuss over him, toying with him, and brushing and combing his hair. I know that she does it, for I have been there with her, and have seen her do it; and he appears to enjoy it quite as much as she does; and I believe, if Polygamy was true he would marry her.’
“ ‘But,’ I said, ‘it is not true, and therefore it is very wrong for her to act in that way, for he is a married man.’
“ ‘Oh, but you know,’ she answered, ‘that we are all brothers and sisters, and the brethren tell us that those little attentions make them feel that they are not so far from home, and they are thus enabled to perform their mission better; and if that is so, it is the duty of the young sisters to encourage them. These little attentions cost nothing, and I’m sure it’s quite a pleasure to me.’
“ ‘Then you go to Jewin Street?’ I asked.
“ ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘sometimes, but not very often, for my elder calls here frequently, as he is acquainted with Mrs. Elsworth; and then I take my work up into the parlour sometimes, and have a long talk with him. Mrs. Elsworth does not like it, I know, but she does not care to oppose the elders;—in fact, her husband will not allow any such thing—he has dared her to do so. After all, she is very silly, for we ought to love each other and be free and friendly. My elder—I call him my elder, you know, simply because I like him better than the others—calls Mrs. Elsworth ‘Gentilish,’ and says she’ll get over it when she goes to Zion. But she says she won’t. She is awfully jealous of her husband and a certain Miss Caroline somebody, though she doesn’t care for him.’
“ ‘But what difference can it make to him?’ I asked her. ‘He has a wife, and ought not to pay attention to any other woman.’
“ ‘Ah, you silly child,’ she said, ‘it is only brotherly love, after all, and men often have wives who do not make them happy, and that makes them seek the society of the young sisters, for those who are far from home are lonely. My own elder’s wife is here in London, but he isn’t much with her. He spends nearly all his time in Jewin Street; he is a travelling Elder, and when he is going anywhere to preach he always calls for me, as he does not like going alone, he is such a genial soul. If Polygamy were true, I’d promise to marry him when we reached the Valley.’
“Then I asked why his wife didn’t go with him; and she said, ‘Oh, poor man! he has no pleasure in her society. She is always moping and unhappy. You know, some women are naturally so. I do all I can to make him feel well, for it must be awful to be married to a woman who is always sad.’
“I asked her why his wife should be so unhappy; and she said, ‘He tells me that she has got it into her head that somehow or other Polygamy is practised in Zion; and I’m sure I, for one, wish it was so, for then we could marry whoever we pleased.’
“ ‘Oh, for shame!’ I said. ‘I’m sure I’d never go there, if I thought so.’
“Then