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Wild Huntress

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<h3>Chapter Eighty.</h3> <h4>Spiritual Wives.</h4> I joined not in the merriment of my companions. I took no share in their mirth. The trapper’s story had intensified the anguish of my thoughts; and now, that I found time to dwell upon its purport, my reflections were bitter beyond expression. I could have no doubt as to who was the heroine of that strange history. She who had been so shamefully deceived—she who had so nobly risked her life to save her honour—she the wild huntress, by the Utahs called Ma-ra-nee—could be no other than that Marian, of whom I had heard so much—Marian Holt! The circumstances detailed by the trapper were perfectly conformable to this belief—they concurred in establishing it. The time—the place—the route taken—the Mormon train all agreed with what we had ascertained regarding Stebbins’s first expedition across the prairies. The Mexican had mentioned no names. It was likely he knew them not; or if so, it was scarcely probable he could have pronounced them. But it needed not names to confirm me in the belief that “Josh Stebbins” was the sham-husband, and that she whom he would have betrayed—this huntress-maiden, was the lost love of my comrade Wingrove—the sister of my own Lilian. This would account for the resemblance that had struck me. It no longer seemed vague, in my memory: I could now trace it palpably and clearly. And this was the grand beauty upon which the young backwoodsman had so enthusiastically descanted. Often had he described it to my incredulous ear. I had attributed his praises to the partiality of a lover’s eye—having not the slightest suspicion that their object was possessed of such merits. No more should I question the justice of his admiration, nor wonder at its warmth. The rude hyperbole that had occasionally escaped him, when speaking of the “girl”—as he called her—no longer appeared extravagant. In truth, the charms of this magnificent maiden were worthy of metaphoric phrase. Perhaps, had I seen her first—before looking upon Lilian—that is, had I not seen Lilian at all—my own heart might have yielded to this half-Indian damsel? Not so now. The gaudy tulip may attract the eye, but the incense of the perfumed violet is sweeter to the soul. Even had both been presented together, I could not have hesitated in my choice. All the same should I have chosen the gold and the rose; and my heart’s preference was now fixed, fondly and for ever. My love for Lilian Holt was a passion too profound to be otherwise than perpetual. It was in my bosom—in its innermost recesses, all-pervading—all-absorbing. There would it cling till death. Even in those dread hours when death seemed hovering above my head, the thought of Lilian was uppermost—even then did my mind dwell upon the perils that encompassed her path. And now that I was myself delivered from danger, had I reason to regard the future of my beloved with apprehensions less acute? No. The horrid scheme which the trapper’s story had disclosed in respect to her sister—might not she, too, be the victim of a similar procuration? O heaven! it was too painfully probable. The more I dwelt upon it, the more probable appeared this appalling hypothesis. I have already spoken of my experience of Mormon life, and the insight I had incidentally obtained into its hideous characteristics. I have said that the spiritual-wife doctrine was long since exploded—repudiated even by the apostles themselves—and in its place the many-wife system had been adopted. There was no change in reality, only in profession. The practice of the Mormon leaders had been the same from the beginning; only that then polygamy had been carried on sub rosa. Publicity being no longer dreaded, it was now practised “openly and above board.” We term it polygamy—adopting an oriental phrase. It is nothing of the kind. Polygamy presupposes some species of marriage, according to the laws of the land; but for Mormon matrimony—at least that indulged in by the dignitaries of the church—there were no statutes, except such as they had chosen to set up for themselves. The ceremony is simply a farce; and consists in the sprinkling of a little water by some brother apostle, with a few mock-mesmeric passes—jocosely termed the “laying on of hands!” The cheat is usually a secret performance: having no other object than to overcome those natural scruples—not very strong among women of Mormon training—but which sometimes, in the case of young girls of Christian education, had opposed themselves to the designs of these impudent impostors. Something resembling matrimony may be the condition of a Mormon wife—that is, the wife of an ordinary “Saint,” whose means will not allow him to indulge in the gross joys of polygamy. But it is different with the score or two of well-to-do gentlemen who finger the finances of the church—the tenths and other tributes which they contrive to extract from the common herd. Among these, the so-called “wife” is regarded in no other light than that of une femme entretenue. I knew that one of the duties specially enjoined upon those emissaries termed “apostles,” is to gather young girls from all parts of the world. The purpose is proclaimed with all the affectation of sanctified phraseology:—that they should become “mothers in the church,” and by this means lead to the more rapid increase of the followers of the true faith! This is the public declaration, intended for the common ear. But the leaders are actuated by motives still more infamous. Their emissaries have instructions to select the fairer forms of creation; and it is well-known that to making converts of this class, have their energies been more especially devoted. It was this species of proselytising—alas! too often successful—that more than aught else had roused the indignation of the backwoodsmen of Missouri and Illinois, and caused the expulsion of the Saints from their grand temple-city of Nauvoo. In the ranks of their assailants were many outraged men—fathers who looked for a lost child—angry brothers, seeking revenge for a sister lured from her home—lovers, who lamented a sweetheart beguiled by that fatal faith—and no doubt the blood of the pseudo-Saint’s, there and then shed, was balm to many a chafed and sorrowing spirit. In the category of this uxorious infamy, no name was more distinguished than that of him, on whose shoulders the mantle of the prophet had descended—the chief who now held ascendancy among these self-styled saints; and who, with an iron hand, controlled the destinies of their church. A man cunning and unscrupulous; a thorough plebeian in thought, but possessed of a certain portentous polish, well suited to deceive the stupid herd that follows him, and sufficient for the character he is called upon to play; a debauchee boldly declared, and scarcely caring for the hypocrisy of concealment; above all, an irresponsible despot, whose will is law to all around him; and, when needing enforcement, can at any hour pretend to the sanction of authority from heaven: such is the head of the Mormon Church! With both the temporal and spiritual power in his hands; legislative, executive, and judicial united—the fiscal too, for the prophet is sole treasurer of the tenths—this monster of imposition wields a power equalled only by the barbaric chiefs of Africa, or the rajahs of Ind. It might truly be said, that both the souls and bodies of his subjects are his, and not their own. The former he can control, and shape to his designs at will. As for the latter, though he may not take life openly, it is well-known that his sacred edict issued to the “destroying angels,” is equally efficacious to kill. Woe betide the Latter-day Saint, who dares to dream of dissent or apostasy! Woe to him who expresses disaffection, or even discontent! Too surely may he dread a mysterious punishment—too certainly expect the midnight visitation of the Danites! Exercising such influence over Mormon men, it is almost superfluous to add, that his control over Mormon women is yet more complete. Virtue, assailed under the mask of a spiritual hypocrisy, is apt to give way—alas! too easily—in all parts of the world; but in a state of society, where such slips are rather a fashion than a disgrace, it is needless to say that they are of continual occurrence. The practice of the pseudo-prophet in wife-taking has very little limit, beyond that fixed by his own desires. It is true he may not outrage certain formalities, by openly appropriating the wives of his followers; but should he fancy to become the husband of their daughters, not only is there no opposition offered on the part of the parent, but the base proposal is regarded in the light of an honour! So esteemed it the women from whom Marian Holt had run away—the brave girl preferring the perils of starvation and savage life to such gentle companionship! Thus contemplating the character of the vulgar Alcibiades, for whose harem she had been designed—in full knowledge of the circumstances which now surrounded her sister—how could I deem the situation of Lilian otherwise than similar—her destiny the same? With such a tyrant to betray, such a father to protect, no wonder that I trembled for her fate! No wonder that the sweat—forced from me my by soul’s agony—broke out in bead-drops upon my brow! <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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