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The Bay State Monthly, Volume 3, No. 5
President Taylor says:—"You want to pay your tithing fairly and squarely, or you will find yourselves outside of the pale of the church of the living God. You must also uphold the co-operative institutions."
Col. Hollister, a gentleman thoroughly acquainted with Mormonism, writes thus:—"There is no rule of the people intended in the Mormon church. There is no state government contemplated because it has every organ of despotic state government in and of itself. It takes no account whatever of the natural right of man to life, liberty, property, freedom of opinion or of conscience. Its bill of rights, its constitution, its laws are the revelations of the prophet. It has not a single idea or institution common to free government or free men. As long as they hold this theocratic idea, to force democratic government upon them, is a farce. Its political party is the church and into that political party no one can enter excepting through the church."
Polygamy disgraces us in the eyes of the world, and fills the home where it enters with untold misery; but a theocratic government, thoroughly equipped, unanimously responsive in all its branches, far-reaching in its designs and expanding as rapidly as that of the Mormon church, presents a great political enigma to the American people even when shorn of its most obnoxious feature. Congress and the country at large have their attention fixed upon the question of polygamy, and the proposed legislative commission, if endorsed by Congress, would bring the Mormon Church itself face to face with it. It is so embedded in the very roots of their organization that many Mormons insist that it would be utterly impossible for the church to dispense with it; and the Deseret News, the church organ in the issue following the President's Message, declares that "neither commissions, edicts or armies, or any earthly power can affect plural marriages of the Mormons for they are 'ecclesiastical, perpetual and eternal.'" No doubt there will be a convulsive effort made to retain the government of the Territory in their own hands, and they might be forced to abandon polygamy to save such a catastrophe, but would they do it in good faith?
What would their fanatical followers say if the "absolute command of God" to Joseph Smith is no longer to be regarded. If polygamy can, however, be happily abolished, there still remains a solid phalanx of determined men and women manipulated by the hand of wily priests and bishops, who do not believe in our institutions, who deny the right of individual feeling or action, who teach the doctrine that the Latter Day Saints will rule eventually the whole country and the world. Such compact power, so guarded, so absolute, is certainly an unparalleled achievement when the few years of its conception and execution in a barren desolate waste is considered. A similar case has never been witnessed before in the heart of any country on the globe, and it is safe to say that no other civilized nation would have tolerated such an anomaly in its midst. Germany even has forbidden Mormon missionaries to come within her borders. England is profuse in condemnation of our Government for permitting such an institution as polygamy, which she fosters however by sending one-half the recruits that come yearly to our shores to practise it. Scandinavia and our own land contribute the balance, and it is confidently asserted that Massachusetts alone gives more converts to Mormonism than are converted from it in Utah, Worthy mechanics and skilled laborers in our manufacturing towns are joining this standard which holds out temptations of temporal prosperity that are difficult to resist.
The Mormon church is fast peopling the immediate surrounding territories. Idaho is dangerously invaded and the balance of power threatened, while Colorado and Arizona have large, growing settlements.
The first train that passed over the new narrow guage road that runs through Colorado, carried a load of foreign emigrants to Utah. Railroads intersect Utah in all directions, and the church is also laying her own peculiar rails throughout the whole region of the Rocky Mountains, and they will give promising dividends in strength and security to the church institutions.
The Edmunds bill is a step towards the abolishment of polygamy. It has disfranchised the law-breakers but has not had the effect of discouraging plural marriages. Some Gentiles maintain that there are as many solemnized now as before the passage of the bill, and the Commission itself acknowledges that the practice still exists, though they think there is a decrease.
However this may be, it is certainly true that strenuous efforts were made immediately upon its adoption to force young people into polygamy; and at the late conferences addresses were delivered enjoining upon the people the fact that, the Kingdom of God could not progress unless they obeyed the revelation given to Joseph Smith at Nauvoo, and God would never forgive his people if they did not obey his commands. While these sentiments were freely expressed in the Tabernacle, a statement is sent to the eastern papers by a prominent member of the church that "the Edmunds Bill has practically abolished polygamy."
To overthrow this theocratic government and to parry the subtle wiles of the priesthood, more than ordinary attention and wisdom will be required, and it will be a great triumph to our legislators if they can succeed in bringing about a peaceable solution of the greatest problem now before the American people.
ELIZABETH.1
CHAPTER XXIV
A CASE OF CONSCIENCEThe stars had not begun to pale in the morning twilight when Elizabeth awakened. The dim outlines of houses and trees could be seen through the window as she looked out against the sky. Within the room the furniture, large and heavy, looked still larger in the darkness. She fixed her eyes upon some point, and followed back the lines that flowed from it until they were lost in the dimness, and this assured her that she was awake. Her writing-table was in part sharply outlined against the window, and part of it was lost in the shadow of the draperies. The bureau seemed only a dark mass among the shadows in force in the corners of the room.
These and the tops of the heavy chairs, as she looked at one and another of them, helped to calm her and give her a sense of reality. But they in no way accounted for the startling suggestion, that whether dream or waking thought had first filled her with fear and then set her heart beating hard as she lay wide awake breathing unevenly and striving to learn if she were still under the influence of a dream, or if the unconscious conviction which had come upon her was the result of dwelling upon what she knew. She could not recall her dreams, but they seemed to her to have had no connection with the sudden sense of danger that had startled her awake. She tried to throw it off, but it was like the objects in the room that had seemed almost invisible at first, but that grew every moment more distinct to her as she watched them. She felt more and more sure that the danger was real, however the knowledge of it had come; a terrible danger, but not to herself. It seemed strange now that she had been blind so long, and yet, how could she have suspected such a horror? Lord Bulchester felt it, too, only that he would not allow himself to believe it. But it was he who had brought conviction home; it would never have come, she thought, if she had not seen him yesterday. But it had come, and it remained. It held her like a vise, drawing her back toward it whenever she tried to escape, driving off sleep forcibly when more than once that seemed about to seize her. What was she to do with it? Plainly, something. It and rest could never dwell together. But what? And how could she do it? A conviction which pressed upon herself with the force of a certainty, and yet had no proofs by which to establish itself, was not an easy thing to make felt by another mind. And when it was a conviction of danger, and that other had by nature and training a contempt of danger, the difficulties were increased. Added to this were other difficulties which Elizabeth felt keenly; but the fear was stronger than them all. The longer she studied the matter the more she saw that the only thing for her to do was the one thing that she shrank from most. All the freedom left her was to find out the best way of doing it.
When the dimness of starlight began to grow into the dawn, she arose. But she delayed at her toilet, standing so long in thought with her brush in her hand, and her dark hair sweeping over her shoulders, that it was six o'clock before she crossed the hall and knocked at her father's door.
There was no answer. She knocked again, with the same result, and then opening the door, found the room empty. Mr. Royal had gone down stairs. But it was too early for Mrs. Eveleigh, and Elizabeth might still have her talk with him without interruption. With a mixture of relief and dread she went down the broad, low stairs and crossed the hall into the library.
It had always been her favorite room. She had spent so many happy hours here with the books, that the room with its handsome old furniture and sunny windows was full of the memories and day dreams that her reading had conjured up. But not only this; it was here that she had seen most of her father; they had spent hours together here, while Mrs. Eveleigh attended to her household duties, or amused herself with her friends, or retired for her nap. And whether father and daughter talked, or sat, he with his paper or his writing, she with her book, each felt a companionship in the other. Elizabeth often spoke her thoughts freely to any one who happened to be within hearing when the mood for speech came over her; but as to her feelings, her father understood those best. This was partly on account of his quickness of comprehension, which supplied much that she did not utter, and partly because there came to her times when her father seemed like a second self, and silence grew unnatural.
But that morning speech, evidently, was not easy to her. For, although she had gone to him as a matter of course, her perplexity seemed to grow greater as she sat down by the desk at which he was making up some accounts. It seemed to her that her life was no longer free and simple; a dreadful force had come into contact with it and, as she felt, made it more unworthy. Had a mere jest ever before brought such a train of miseries? Her fingers laid restless folds in a piece of paper she took up, and her father after his greeting went on with the accounts. It was his habit to give people time, and he had found that doing it gave him the best opportunity to take his own bearings. His judgments were usually so accurate, and his decisions so wise that a good many people would have been thankful to find the scales by which he weighed the anxiety or the satisfaction that came under his observation. On that morning the rapid pen travelled several times up and down columns of figures and noted down the results before Elizabeth began:
"Father." It was a small beginning, and followed by silence. But the tone made Mr. Royal push his work aside, and look full into his daughter's face. "Father," she repeated, "I want you to advise me."
"Am I not always ready for that?" returned Mr. Royal, his smile fading before the gravity of her expression.
"There is something so hard to be done," she answered.
"Then, must it be done?"
"Oh, yes, that's the only thing about it I am quite sure of. It must be done, and directly, too. It may be too late now, but we must try. What troubles me is how it can be done so that we may be certain."
"Certain of what?"
"Certain that it reaches him," answered Elizabeth. Then she looked at her father, and remembered that he could not understand her. "I must tell you," she said. "It is like a nightmare. It oppresses me to think of it. I feel guilty to believe it, and yet I don't dare to deny it to myself, for fear of the consequences. It's about Mr. Edmonson, father."
"Oh!" said her listener in a tone far from pleased.
"And Mr. Archdale, added Elizabeth. Not that who the people are makes any difference. Our duties would be just the same knowing the,—knowing what I do." Her father sat watching her in silence with his keenest gaze. "There is no love lost between the two men, as you know," she went on. "Mr. Archdale is lofty, and wouldn't condescend to anything more than a dislike that he hasn't tried to conceal, since Mr. Edmonson ceased being his guest. But with Mr. Edmonson it's different; when he feels, he acts; and once in a while there is an unrestraint about him which is frightful; it makes me think of lava breaking through the crust of a volcano. I believe there is something volcanic in his nature; you can't go deep into it without danger. And there is danger now. Father, there is danger now." As Elizabeth repeated her statement she leaned forward a little and looked at her father, her eyes full of earnestness and dread.
"In what way, and to whom?" asked Mr. Royal.
"To Mr. Archdale," she answered.
It was not Mr. Royal's way to protest or deny; he liked to get in his evidence first of all. "What makes you think so?" he asked.
"A good many little things that have come back to me in confirmation, but especially a speech of Mr. Edmonson's that I overheard one day at Seascape. Stray shots," he said, "have taken off more superfluous kings and men than the world has any idea of. I did not know at the time whom he had been speaking about, and I forgot the speech; it seemed to me to have no object. But now it does, and now I remember a word or two besides that showed me that he had turned the conversation upon Mr. Archdale."
"When was this?"
"One morning when I was coming up from the beach, I didn't feel like talking to anyone, and when I heard voices the other side of the great boulder—you remember it?—I waited a moment, to see if they would pass on, so that I need not go back to the house by the longest way; and it was then that he said it. He was with Lord Bulchester. He was speaking of other things first, and then I missed a few words, and then he said this."
"So far as he was concerned," answered Mr. Royal, "that might be as innocent a speech as ever was uttered. Indeed, don't you see that a man who meditated mischief wouldn't make such a speech at all?"
"If the man were Mr. Edmonson he might, and to Lord Bulchester who, he knows, never would do anything against him. But Lord Bulchester is uncomfortable. I saw it yesterday; and perhaps wondering over that was what made me put everything together. I don't know how it was, but I awoke in the night and saw it all. And now they have gone where the will and the opportunity are sure to meet. Mr. Archdale must be warned."
"But, Elizabeth," said her father, "why should he want to do it? He succeeded in his designs upon the Archdale property. What malice can he have?" As he spoke, he looked earnestly at his daughter. He had not been blind to things going on about him, and especially things concerning his daughter, but in a case like this no suppositions of his own were to take the place of evidence.
Elizabeth met his eyes for a moment, then her own drooped and she grew pale. It was not that her father's eyes told her his thoughts, it was at the humiliation of her own position in being the object of mercenary scheming. "He has not enough money," she said at last distinctly, "and he wants more. That's what it means. And he dares to think—." She stopped short, and for a moment it seemed as if it would be impossible for her to go on; a hot flush came to her face and an angry light into her eyes. Then her courage returned, and although she uttered the words with visible effort she went resolutely on. "I know it," she said, "he dares to think someone else,—Mr. Archdale,—is somewhat like himself, and that he will come to want more money too. He cares for nobody, he would stop at nothing, and he thinks that I refused him because,—he does not understand how I feel towards him. Oh, don't you know that sometimes you know all about a thing, know it perfectly, and cannot make it seem so to another? Don't let it be so with you, father. Only listen to me." Mr. Royal did listen attentively as she went over the points of her story again. Had she been talking of some matter of business, her inexperience and a something about her that people were apt to call unpracticalness, might have decided him against giving any unusual weight to a speech like Edmonson's. But here the weight of her character, and of impressions stronger than she could put into words told. He saw, too, that she was looking at the matter with the accuracy and judgment that it usually takes years of training to learn. This, added to her own intensity, gave a convincing force to her words. He admitted to himself that the affair had an ugly look.
At last Elizabeth paused. She drew a little nearer her father, and laid her hand upon the table beside him. "I want you to advise me;" she said; then, "What must I do?"
In the impossibility of any answer he felt a sudden rebound from the force of her words. "I don't see that there is anything for you to do, or for anybody," he said. "How can you act upon a thing that is purely an assumption, and not only that, but a thing so wicked that it is a cruelty to a man to imagine it about him? I can't believe that it's necessary to do anything, for I can't bring myself to feel as you do. Are you very sure that you have not fancied a part of this?"
"Father!" cried Elizabeth, "I wish I had, But look at it." And she went again over the grounds of her suspicions, giving with a clearness that he was proud of, the indications that she had seen of the bent of Edmonson's will and the evidences of his headstrong character, linking one trifling act or word to another, until she had welded a chain so strong that Mr. Royal felt a thrill run through him as he listened, for she awoke in him her own belief and something of her own anxiety to be doing. So that when she had finished, instead of repeating that it was not necessary to do anything, he asked whom she had thought of as the person to give the warning to Archdale.
She was about to speak, then checked herself, hesitated, and at last said, "I want you to advise me."
"Um!" said Mr. Royal, and was silent. He was somewhat disappointed that she, so powerful in statement, should have no suggestion to offer in a matter that puzzled him the more, the more he thought of it. Such a warning would not be easy to give under the most favorable circumstances. It would not be a pleasant task to tell a man that another man had designs upon his life, and when such assertion had only the proof of strong conviction and of evidence, trivial in its details, strong only as a whole, it would be even hazardous to whisper a warning to the person himself, liable to lead to complications and sure to be met by incredulity and either ridicule or resentment. But here, where no personal communication was to be had, the difficulties were a hundred times greater. Circumstances made it especially awkward for either Elizabeth or himself to put these suspicions into words. But to put them upon paper with all the cumulative evidence needed to carry conviction,—if conviction could indeed be conveyed without the reiteration of words and the persuasiveness of the voice,—to do this and send the paper adrift, to fall into Archdale's hands or not as the fortunes of war should determine, perhaps to fall into other hands,—it was impossible, for Elizabeth's sake it was impossible. "I don't see how we can reach him," he said at last. "A letter wouldn't answer."
"No," she said, "he might never get it." Mr. Royal looked at her more closely as she fixed her eyes upon him, flushing a little as she spoke with the earnestness of her purpose.
"Well," he said musingly, "we certainly can't get at him in any other way, and that one is uncertain and dangerous. Even the dispatches are subject to the fortunes of war. I don't see what we can do, Elizabeth. Do you?"
But even as he spoke, he refrained from what he was about to add, turning his assertion into a question. For a change was coming over his daughter; the power within her to rise to great occasions was in force now. The conventionalities that were holding him in check were unfelt by her; she had risen above them to that high ground where the intricacies of life are resolved into absolute questions of right and wrong, and where perfect simplicity of intention becomes a divine guide.
"Father, do you remember," she cried, "what I have cost him and Katie? I must not be silent, and let them be separated more, a great deal, than my foolish speech once seemed to do. He has gone where stray shots are of everyday occurence, and nobody ever inquires into them. Apart from this obligation, if we do nothing we shall be murderers." She locked her fingers together as she spoke, not in nervous indecision, for her look was full of resolution, but as if the necessity that she was facing disturbed her. Mr. Royal suddenly perceived that his daughter had not finished, that behind that expression there was, not a suggestion, indeed, but a decision. She had come to him, not for advice, but for approval; she knew what to do. Her plan would scarcely be one to meet the approval of people like Mrs. Eveleigh. But he recognized that the soul that was looking out from Elizabeth's fearless eyes had a high law of its own. And when his daughter spoke in this mood, Mr. Royal was reverent enough to listen.
CHAPTER XXV
DUTY"How strange it seems here," said Nancy Foster leaning forward toward Elizabeth, as they sat in the sunshine on the deck of the schooner; and as she spoke she glanced along the horizon.
Elizabeth before answering turned her head in the direction in which the land, had it been in sight, would have appeared; but no vision of shore broke the wide circuit of ocean and sky. Then her eyes came back to the little vessel as if to assure herself that she was not alone in this waste of water. Her father sat on the opposite side reading. With a word of reply to Nancy, she fell into silence again. Only, instead of the vague wonder how she should meet the future, her thoughts now turned to the past. It was nine mornings since that consultation with her father in the library, and they had been only one night at sea. It had taken a week to get off. From the first she had counted upon Mrs. Eveleigh's remonstrances and vehement reproaches of Mr. Royal's wrong-doing in taking his daughter into such danger. They were only a little more vehement than she had expected. But Mrs. Eveleigh did not know the errand; if she had, that would have made a difference, or, as Elizabeth reflected, she thought that this would have been treated as the strangest part of the affair. But she had kept her own counsel, saying only that her father and she thought it right. Mrs. Eveleigh had been so exasperated by being kept in the dark that she had retained her anger to the very last day. Then she had drowned her resentment in a flood of tears, and declared between her sobs that, frightful as it all was, for she dreaded the very sight of a gun, she would rather go with Elizabeth than have the dear girl set off without any companion. Elizabeth's reminder that her father and Nancy were to accompany her only called forth the assertion that a maid was no companion, and a man was nothing at such a time. Elizabeth thought that at the time of sieges and battles a man might be considered of some little consequence. But she never argued with Mrs. Eveleigh, and she had quitted her thankful for the good lady's affection, and glad that Mrs. Eveleigh was to be left behind on such an expedition.
"You'll never come back," Mrs. Eveleigh sobbed. "The French ships of war will be sure to gobble up you and your father, too. I know just how it will be. You are a crazy girl, and I don't know what is the matter with you," she had added irrelevantly; "and as to your father, you must have bewitched him; he used to have plenty of common sense."
The matter with Mr. Royal was, that he knew his daughter well enough to be sure that if Archdale was killed during the siege she would feel always that her silence might have given the opportunity for his death. And he knew that to bring upon Elizabeth the miseries of an uneasy conscience would be to kill her by slow torture. Besides, he himself believed in the danger, his own conscience was aroused, and that was not easily put to sleep. But if he had heard the verdict of Mrs. Eveleigh, who knew nothing of the matter, he would not have blamed her so much.
