TRIALS—THE SECOND WIFE CHOSEN—SHADOWS OF LIFE.  
It is a custom among the Mormon married men—those at least who make any pretensions to doing what is right, and who wish to spare the feelings of their wives as much as the degrading system will allow—to make it appear as if the second wife were chosen by the first, and they go through the form of consulting with her as to who shall be selected. The husband will mention the names of several eligible young ladies, among whom is sure to be the one upon whom he has already set his affections. If the wife should try to make herself agreeable by suggesting one or another of these young ladies, some objection is sure to be raised. One is too thoughtless; the relations of another are not quite so agreeable as they might be; and the temper of a third is said to be not very good. In this way, one after another is taken off the list, until only one remains—the bright particular star of whom all along the husband has been thinking—and if the wife should make any objections to this one, the husband, of course, has a ready answer. In most cases her extreme youth is an excuse for everything; she will have plenty of time to learn, and will be the more ready to be taught.
When once they have obtained the reluctant consent of their wives, it is astonishing how bright and cheerful these Mormon husbands become. Notwithstanding all that they have said to the contrary, it is evident that Polygamy is no trial to their faith. They say that it is as great a cross to them as it is to their wives, but somehow or other they take very kindly to it.
It was soon settled who should be the honoured maiden to whom my husband should pay his addresses. Her name was Belinda, and she was the daughter of the Apostle Parley P. Pratt. I of course was not expected to ask any questions or evince any curiosity respecting the girl or my husband’s relations towards her. I had given my consent, I had acted[286] my part, or at least all the part that was expected of me; I had fulfilled my duty as a Mormon first wife when I agreed to another wife being taken; and, henceforth, all that transpired was—so the Elders would have said—no business of mine.
My husband’s intended certainly was very young—almost too young for a bride she would have been considered in any other community—and I must in fairness allow that she was very handsome. It is of the utmost importance that a Mormon girl should marry young. Women everywhere are never anxious to grow old, but among the Mormons age is especially dreaded by the women; for when years have robbed them of their personal attractions, in most cases they lose all hold upon their husbands’ affections, and find themselves obliged to give place to prettier and more youthful rivals. A woman’s position in the world to come, as I have before mentioned, depends, so the Elders say, very much upon the number of children she has borne in this; it is, therefore, a consideration of the very first importance that she should marry as early in life as possible, and this obligation is never for a moment overlooked by the refined and pure-minded Mormon men.
And now began the “painful task” of wooing the young lady. My husband told me that it was “a very painful duty,” and as an obedient wife I felt bound to believe him. It was, of course, no pleasure to him to pay his addresses to an interesting young girl; it was no anxiety to be with her which made him hasten away to the damsel’s house of an evening. Oh, dear, no! it was pure principle, love for the kingdom of God, and “a very painful task!” He seemed, however, to bear it remarkably well, and manifested a zeal which was perfectly astonishing to me, considering the circumstances. In fact, I felt it my duty to restrain him a little for the sake of his health, for he seemed so anxious to perform his “task” properly that he could scarcely spare time to take his meals; but, regardless of his own feelings, he did not pay much attention to my suggestions.
But, deeply as I sympathized with my husband, there were times when I felt that mine was indeed no imaginary sorrow, and that nothing could lull the storm that had gathered in my breast. The affliction which I had so long dreaded was now right at my door, and the most painful feelings agitated my mind. Sometimes I shut myself up in my own room and tried to reason with myself; then I would kneel, and pray, and weep with passionate emotion; and again I would pace the floor, my heart overflowing with anger and indignation. I never, at[287] that time, knew what it was to be happy, for I felt that I was a burden and hindrance to my husband, and I longed to die. I had loved him so devotedly that I could not even now cast him from my heart, and, though I felt bitterly my position, I believed that he would not willingly wound me, and that he was acting from the purest of motives. But it was all in vain. I could not change my nature, and my heart would rebel.
It would be impossible for me to tell the thousand annoyances and indignities to which I was forced to submit—trials which might appear too trifling even to name, but which to a wife, under such circumstances, were crosses which she found it hard enough to bear. My husband knew nothing of these things, and, had he done so, it is more than probable that he would have considered it weakness in me to be troubled about matters of such small consequence—little actions and foolish words which he would have said I ought to have treated with contempt. It was easy to say that, but not so easy to do. Let any wife picture to herself how she would feel, if, after schooling her heart to submission, after realizing that she was no longer to be first and dearest in her husband’s affections, she were to be constantly hearing the friends and relations of the young girl to whom her husband was engaged, boasting of his devotion to her, and openly expressing their belief that he had never loved before! How would any wife be pleased if, whenever her husband’s intended received a valuable present from him, she were particularly informed of the fact, and a thousand little aggravating details were added to make her, if possible, more miserable?
A woman can nerve herself to endure almost anything, and outwardly she may conceal her feelings, but there are limits beyond which endurance is not possible. A chance meeting with the girl who has superseded her in her husband’s love,—or worse still, should she chance to surprise the affectionate couple tête-á-tête,—is sufficient to dispel all her good resolutions and to destroy that tranquillity of mind which she finds it so difficult to preserve. She becomes sick at heart, nervous, and entirely unfitted for her duties. I have frequently heard Mormon women say that, notwithstanding their husbands had been for many years polygamists, they could never see the other wives without a feeling of anger and indignation arising in their hearts. I know that in my own case I never became reconciled to the system.
My husband was called away to the Eastern States upon business, and his marriage was postponed. I thought that the[288] present would be a good time to show her some little attentions, which I believed it was my duty to do. The idea of coming in contact with her was certainly not at all pleasant; but I felt that it was only right for me to act in a friendly manner towards her, however painful it might be. She was the cause of much sorrow to me, but I could not blame her, for she had been born and brought up in the system, and, of course, supposed it true.
Belinda was a very nice girl, and, under other circumstances, I believe I should have liked her very much. I looked upon her as little more than a child, and my husband has frequently told me that he also regarded her in that light; but to me it was of small consequence that he thought of her as a child, so long as he acted towards her as a woman. Now that he was away from home, there was no danger that she would meet him, so I invited her in a friendly way to call upon me. She came, and I had one or two other ladies present, for I was not like my husband in that particular—I had no anxiety to be alone with her. My effort to cultivate a friendly feeling towards her was not very successful. There was a coldness and restraint on both sides which we could not overcome, and I felt not a little relief when the evening was over. Subsequently I renewed the attempt, but to no purpose; her very presence in my house, and among my children, seemed in itself an insult to me.
During my husband’s absence my poor friend Carrie Grant had been daily growing worse in health. I had once asked my husband if there was any truth in the rumours that I had heard of his attachment to her, but he had assured me that there was no foundation for them.
Poor Carrie! Hers was a short and unhappy life; even her little dream of love was overclouded by disappointment. She was now constantly confined to her room, and whenever it was possible I used to call upon her, and attempted to make her feel more happy and cheerful. She used to ask me to talk with her about Mormonism. “You know,” she said, “that I have never known any other religion, and I believe that this is right, though it does not make me happy. My father loved Mormonism so much that I feel it must be right; the fault is in my own evil nature, that does not bend to the will of Heaven.”
One day she said to me: “I am getting worse, Sister Stenhouse, and I am glad of it, for I shall die. I am of no good here—there is nothing for me to do; if I lived, I should only cause trouble; it is better as it is.”
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“Carrie,” I said, “you must not talk like that. You are still very young, and probably will live for many years, and you do not know what future may lie befo............