"I want to be a Mormon,And with the Mormons stand,"
"I want to be a Mormon,And with the Mormons stand,"
and give it with as much fervor, Erma cannot help noticing, as the Sunday-schools in the East sing the beautiful hymn, "I want to be an angel," on which this is an awful parody.
Then stillness falls upon the audience, for the big gun of the evening is coming—the man who stands upon the right hand of the prophet and obtains his inspiration from him; the man who has expounded to them during a number of years the doctrines of their creed, revealed by the Almighty to Joseph Smith, their founder.
A moment after Kruger announces, a peculiar thrill in his voice, "Bishop Tranyon!"
As he says this, Erma, bending forward to get a better view, clenches her little hands together and thinks to herself, "This is the wretch who is Lawrence's enemy, and would destroy his happiness and mine!"
Then onto the platform comes a figure, wearing his clothes with a grace strange in a Mormon community, and whose broadcloth is finer than the sect is wont to wear, and whose gray eyes are familiar, and whose soft gestures are those she has been longing for—and whose grizzled moustache, now joined to a mighty beard, has caressed her lips. Gazing at him with all her might, something suddenly snaps in the girl's head, for he is speaking, and the incisive, smooth, cynical voice now crying the glory of the Mormon Church, the sanctity of plural, polygamous marriage—the voice now crying out the glory of what she thinks unutterable indignity and degradation to her sex, is that of—God help her!—no, she will not believe it, but still does—her father!
In one awful flash comes to her the thought, "If he is what he is, then what am I?" and merciful insensibility comes with it.
As for Mr. Livingston, he has listened to the preliminary proceedings in a perfunctory, philosophical kind of way, sometimes scoffing inwardly. Then his mind, as the children sing their hymn, running upon other churches, finally comes to his own; he has got to carelessly looking over the choristers, and trying to select from them youths who he thinks would make good altar-boys in his Episcopal Church.
He is hardly awakened from this when Bishop Tranyon is announced, and looking carelessly at him, thinks, "There's something curiously familiar in the old Mormon—he has a little of the New York club style about him. Good gracious! that gesture—where have I seen it?" and rubs his glasses and inspects him more closely. And then, remembering Travenion, the old New York swell, having known him as a boy, and seen him on his visits to New York, Ollie gets excited, for the eyes seem familiar to him, and the voice is the same that he has heard several times in the smoking-rooms of the Unity and Stuyvesant Clubs, though for a moment he cannot reconcile himself to believe what his memory tells him.
But just here, Erma's body falls a dead weight upon him and her head droops on his shoulder.
Looking at her, he sees that she has fainted so quietly that he has not noticed it, and an awful shock coming upon this conventional and orthodox young man, he gasps to himself, "Good Gad, Erma's father!" and is so paralyzed and petrified that he makes no effort to revive the girl, but simply looks on in a horrified kind of wonder as the festival proceeds.
In a daze, he hears the old New York club man play hisrôleof Mormon exhorter and apostle, and do it very well, for he has just brought forward five children of assorted sizes and sexes, and has proclaimed with sanctimonious voice to the uncouth Saints assembled about him: "These are my hostages to the State of Deseret; these are my pledges to the Zion of our Lord!" And taking up the smallest of his family—a babe with Erma's eyes—this evangelist continues: "This tot I have named Brigham after our well-loved President, and Joseph for our first Prophet, and Hyrum after his sainted brother, who was murdered with him—unto the glory of our true religion and the damnation of our unbelieving enemies." So, holding the little one on his arm he cries, "Let us pray!"
And he does pray—so earnestly, so impressively, so tremendously that Oliver, gazing at him with agitated eyes, begins to pray himself, thinking affrightedly: "What shall I do? My God, I am here with a Mormon's daughter!"
Then he would make an effort to arouse the girl to consciousness, and perhaps cause a scene, but he suddenly thinks, "If I disturb the meeting, they may treat me roughly. These infidels do not believe in Gentile interruptions to their religious ceremonies;" and so sits quietly by the side of the unconscious girl, till Bishop Tranyon, of Salt Lake City, ex-Ralph Travenion, the New York exquisite, dandy and club man, finishes his harangue, and the people crowd about the platform and congratulate him on his great speech, to the glory of God and Brigham Young, his prophet.
But looking at Bishop Tranyon now, Oliver thinks he sees the cynic scoff of the Manhattan swell, as if, fight it how he will, he can't keep down a sneer at the religion that he preaches.
Just then, heart-breaking consciousness and recollection coming to the girl, she says in a low, faltering voice, placing a feeble though pleading hand upon his arm, "Take me away!"
In the confusion and hilarity of the festival, the melodeon playing loudly and the children singing that well-known Utah Sunday-school hymn,
"Say, Daddy, I'm a Mormon!"
"Say, Daddy, I'm a Mormon!"
unnoticed by all save Kruger, who knows his arrow has struck its shining mark, Oliver gets Erma out of the hall and to the carriage, which fortunately has returned.
Lifting her in, he cries, in feeble agitation, "The Townsend House! Quick!" for he fears his charge will faint again in the carriage. But she is beyond fainting now.
She whispers hoarsely: "You recognized him also?" then wrings her hands, and gasps, "My God! my father!" next bursts out: "That was the reason I did not meet him. That is the reason he never wanted me to come West to live with him—among his concubines he calls wives—he, my father, who once calledmymother wife!"
Then to Oliver Livingston comes the opportunity of his life—his one supreme moment to win this woman, who is more beautiful in her agony even than in her joy; for the girl has fallen sobbing on his shoulder, and had he but treated her as if he loved her—aye, even pitied her—she would have given unto him gratitude so potent it might have grown to love, and so made her his.
But his puny heart is too small for such magnanimity, and to her tears and her mutterings, "What will the world think of me now?" he replies: "This is awful. This is a terrible thing for you. It will take you a long time to live this down. You had better retire from society for a time. Prayer and repent—"
And so his opportunity forever leaves him. The girl cuts short his last word with a shudder, then draws herself up, and says, a desperate gleam in her eyes: "Don't dare to talk to me as if the sin of my father was my sin. That kind of innuendo I will not permit!" next mutters: "I asked for sympathy and you gave me a sermon!" A moment after, she says, in measured tones, "We are at the hotel. You need not help me down. The touch of the polygamist's daughter might sully you, Mr. Immaculate!"
Then, unheeding his proffered aid, Erma descends from the carriage, and going into the house, he following her, she turns, and says haughtily: "I wish to see your mother as soon as she comes from the theatre; but, before that, I must seehim," and mutters, "If it is not too much of a service to me, in my extremity, go back to the meeting and tell my father to come to me at once. It may be the last favor I shallever askof you," and strides to her room.
So, he leaves her to go on her errand; but chancing to pass a barroom, he goes in, a thing which is unusual for him, and, calling for a glass of brandy, gulps it down, his hands trembling a little.
Thinking the matter over as he drinks, he concludes his mother should be told first, and going to the Salt Lake Theatre, purchases a ticket.
It is fortunately anentr'acte, and he very shortly finds Mrs. Livingston's seat. Walking down the aisle to her, he whispers, "Bring Louise and Ferdie at once. Something terrible has happened!"
Looking at the white face of her offspring, the widow suddenly gasps, "Good Heavens! Erma has eloped with that awful Captain Lawrence, the Vigilante," and grabs helplessly for her wraps.
"No," he says grimly, as he supports her to the door, Ferdie and Louise following them; "but it is almost as bad."
"Tell me," whispers his mother, and seeing that he does not answer, goes on hysterically: "Tell me or I shall faint right here." But he finally gets her to the sidewalk, where the breezy air cools her nervous system, and putting her into the carriage he has brought with him, where, if she so elects, she can faint comfortably, he tells her in a few words what has happened.
Then, unheeding her exclamations of surprise and horror, as likewise those of Louise and Ferdie, he whispers, "Go back to the hotel. I am going to find this Mormon and bring him there," and leaving the carriage to drive back to the Townsend House, starts on foot for the meeting in the Twenty-fifth Ward.
But Salt Lake City blocks are long, and Mr. Livingston's episode at the theatre has taken some time. When he reaches the meeting-house, its windows are dark, the festival has ended, and there is nothing left him but to return to the hotel.
On his way back, however, his mind being on other things than his footsteps, he wanders into one of the streams that flow in this peculiar city where gutters would be in ordinary towns, and it being knee-deep, comes out of it in a very bad humor. This is not decreased by the dust which settles upon his immaculate inexpressibles, and gives him a very sorry appearance.
As he enters the hotel, Louise comes to meet him with a frightened face, and whispers, "Mamma is talking to her in her parlor," then suddenly cries out, "Goodness! Have you been fighting with her father?"
At which he snaps at her, "Go to bed, you little idiot," and pushing past her, enters his mother's sitting-room in by no means the frame of mind to properly meet, even for his own interest, the situation before him.
The room is but slightly illuminated,—the Townsend House gas, manufactured on the premises, being only strong in odor.
By it he can see Miss Travenion standing near the centre of the apartment, so white she would seem a statue, were it not for the dazzling brilliancy of her eyes, that appear to have burnt up the tears that were in them, and a slight nervous twitching of the hands, such as comes to us when hope is no more.
Mrs. Livingston, seated on a sofa, is speaking in a tremulous sort of way, for the girl's manner just at this time frightens her.
She is saying, "You had best leave this awful place to-morrow morning, and come with us to California. I have ordered your maid to pack your trunks. My maid is doing the same." Then she turns to her son, remarking, "You think it will be best, also, Oliver?"
But Erma prevents his reply. She cries, taking a step towards him, "My father!" and seeing no one behind him, gasps, "What have you done to him, or what has he done to you?" for Mr. Livingston's pale face and disfigured trousers suggest ideas of combat that would make her laugh at other and happier times.
To this he replies curtly, "Nothing; I could not find him."
"Why not?"
"Their blasphemous meeting-house was closed." Then he says in a nasty, sneering tone, for the young lady's manner has added to his anger, "Your father and his Mormon brats had gone away."
"His Mormon brats?" This comes from both Mrs. Livingston and Erma, though one gives it with a shriek and the other with a shudder.
"Yes, your five little brothers and sisters," he sneers at Erma. "Didn't you see them? They got the Sunday-school prizes, I think. They look like your father, and one of the girls has your eyes," and would go on with some more such scoffing pleasantries, did not his mother spring to him and whisper, "Idiot!" for the girl has sunk down sobbing upon a chair and is wringing her hands at this last cruel revelation.
Not liking his mother's word, Oliver grows more angry, and says sternly, "Remember, I am the head of the family, and shall take this matter into my own hands." To this, Mrs. Livingston, who since his father's death has grown to look upon him as the director of the family, saying nothing, he continues: "Erma, I have been thinking this matter over as I returned. Your father's crimes have placed him outside the laws of this land. Under these circumstances, I feel it incumbent on me to take charge of your life." This peculiar assumption of power he makes very placidly, turning to the young lady, who answers him not, his last revelation still overcoming her.
Noting this, Mr. Complaisant thinks: "My manner has subdued her. Crushed by this blow, Miss Haughty, who has defied and jeered me for the last few days, is now submissive to my authority," and the pangs of jealousy and rage that had been administered by Harry Lawrence come into his small mind to make him take a smaller revenge.
He says, "I think it is best, mother, that we postpone our visit to California, and immediately return to the East, until I can make proper arrangements for Erma. It will take her a long time to live this scandal down."
"Ah, you are very kind to the friendless daughter of a Mormon," interjects the girl, sarcastically; but he being full of himself, does not heed her, and continues: "A proper retirement from society is due to it."
"Retirement!" she exclaims, "to expiate my father's crimes!" then says sadly: "You seem to think that I am sullied by his sin;" next sneers, "Perhaps you imagine a reform school or a convent would be the proper place for me, Mr. Livingston."
"Not exactly that."
"No, but something like it," cries Erma, and rising, she towers above him, and goes on in mighty scorn: "And you dare arrogate authority over me? You are neither my guardian nor my trustee;" next jeers at him, for her torture makes her cruel: "If every girl in New York society expiated their father's social crimes, how many would escape? Little Louise, for instance—eh?"
This awful shot brings tears to Mrs. Livingston's eyes, for her dead spouse had been of such a peculiar social nature that he had been known by his intimates as "Mormon Livingston."
"Hush! Your father's sins are open ones," says Oliver.
But she turns on him, crying: "It is not your place to criticise him. If atonement is in order, atone for yourself, Mr. Immaculate!" and this is another facer for Oliver, who has had his weak moments in which he has listened to sirens' voices, as many men in New York society have.
Then, a second after, the girl says, slowly: "You go on with your trip, Mrs. Livingston, as if nothing had happened."
"But you?" asks the widow, who, knowing that Miss Travenion's remarks have been made in frenzy, forgives her and pities her.
"I go to my father."
"To do what?"
"Todrag him from his iniquity! Good-night, and—good-bye," and saying this, the young lady sweeps from the room, brushing past Louise, who is standing outside the door in childish astonishment and dismay.
But Mrs. Livingston is whispering to Ollie. "Idiot! You have driven her and her million away from us. Think of Louise and me."
To this he answers surlily, "I don't believe it wise to wed a girl society will look down upon."
"Fool!" cries his mother. "How long do you think it will take in New York society for a girl with sixty thousand dollars a year to live anything down?" and leaving him to digest this truthful platitude, she pursues Miss Travenion, overtaking her at the entrance of that young lady's room.
Here, diplomat as she is, she makes a mistake. Louise has also followed, and Erma impulsively seizes the girl, whom she loves very well, and kisses her tenderly and whispers, "Good-bye!"
Coming upon this, Mrs. Livingston, anxious for uninterrupted interview, thoughtlessly says: "Louise, go to bed at once! We leave on the early train to-morrow morning!"
At this, Erma, whom humiliation makes sensitive, draws back and mutters, "Do you fear my touch will contaminate her?"
"Not at all," says Mrs. Livingston. "You mistake me, dear Erma. I want to beg you to come with us to California. You mustn't think of what Ollie in his agitation said to you."
"I don't," answers Erma. "Thank God that wounded my pride, but not my heart!" For in all this cruel humiliation she has been conscious of one joy—that any chance of union with Oliver Livingston is now forever ended.
"You must reconsider your rash determination," entreats the widow.
"Impossible!"
"In your present excited state you had better not see your father."
"Now it is necessary that I see my father—more so than ever."
"You cannot live with him with those awful women."
"Oh, don't fear for me," says the girl. "There are others who will protect me here, if he will not."
"Who?" gasps the widow.
"The man I love!" And opening her door, Erma Travenion flies in and locks it; then starts aghast! and cries in a hoarse and rasping voice, "Tranyon!—Bishop Tranyon! thewretch Tranyon! who has ruined him! My God! what will Harry Lawrence think of Tranyon the Mormon's daughter?" And sinking down upon the bed, she writhes and moans, for at this thought, which has been mercifully kept from her till the last, nothing seems left her in this world.
During this time, Ferdie has been abstractedly sitting in a neighboring barroom, every once in a while walking up to the barkeeper and whispering "Brandy!" then muttering to himself over it, "Miss Mormon is having a high old time with auntie and Ollie." The rest of his time he whistles meditatively. Just about midnight, he thinks: "She is through with Mrs. Livingston. I wonder if I could not do anything to help her?"
So, there comes a knock upon Miss Travenion's door, and she opening it herself, for she has not undressed, finds Mr. Chauncey, who looks sheepishly at her and says in confused tones: "Oliver has told me your determination. We are going to San Francisco to-morrow morning. You remain here to see your father."
"Yes, Ferdie," answers the young lady.
"Any way, you are better off away from that prig till he gets over the shock," replies the boy. Then he laughs a little, and says suggestively, "You can have him back whenever you want, I imagine," nodding towards Mr. Livingston's apartment.
"I don't want him back."
"No, I presume not," returns Mr. Chauncey, trying to smooth matters, "not since you have seen our hero, Captain Lawrence." So he unwittingly gives the girl another stab, but tries to correct it by muttering:
"By Jove, I had forgotten! Your dad is the man who is busting him. Harry isn't stuck after Tranyon, is he?" To this getting no reply, he goes on hastily: "If you want me, I will stay here and look after you. I don't care to go to California."
"Oh," says Erma, "don't fear for me. My father has taken care of me till now. You don't suppose he would injure a hair of my head?" then sobs, "And he was so good to me. I expected such joy at meeting him."
Here Ferdie desperately turns the subject, for girls' tears always embarrass him.
He says, "Can't I do anything for you? Tell me—just anything."
"Yes," says the young lady, shortly. Then she considers a moment and asks:
"You know where this Bishop Kruger lives?"
"No, but I can easily find out."
"Very well. Will you take a note to him for me?"
"With pleasure!" he cries, as if glad she has given him a chance to do her service. So, sitting down, she writes a few lines hurriedly, and gives the epistle to Mr. Chauncey.
Half an hour afterward he returns, and knocks on her door. She is engaged with her maid, who has become frightened at being left behind the Livingston party, and says she wishes to return to New York.
Answering his summons, Erma asks anxiously, "Did you deliver it?"
"Yes; he was in his shirt sleeves, but he read it, and said he would be down in the morning. He seemed to chuckle over it. I don't think I would trust your father's friend any too much," suggests the boy.
"Thank you," cries the girl, "for your advice and your kindness," and being desperately grateful for this one act of consideration shown to her this night, she says to him suddenly: "Good-bye. God bless you, Ferdie!" and gives him an impetuous kiss—the sweetest he has ever had in his life, though with it she leaves a tear upon his cheek.
Then she comes in and says with business-like directness to her faltering abigail, "You wish to leave me, Marie, here alone?"
"Yes, I am afraid. Mademoiselle will pardon me."
"Certainly. Here are your wages! Here is money for your ticket to New York. Now go."
"Mademoiselle will pardon me?"
"Yes, leave me," and Marie departing, Erma Travenion feels that she is indeed alone in a strange country, for she hears the noise of the Livingstons' trunks as they are packing them and getting ready to depart in a hurry that does not seem altogether flattering to her.
Early the next morning, the widow, Louise, Mr. Livingston, and Ferdie depart for Ogden, though the California train does not start from that town until the evening; they are so desperately anxious to shake the dust of Salt Lake City from their feet.
At the depot, Ferdie notices Bishop Kruger, who gazes at the party as they board the train, and approaching Mr. Chauncey, remarks, "I'll see Miss Ermie up at the hotel. She ain't going with ye,sure?" peering about with curious eyes, as if to be certain of this fact. Then the train runs out, bearing the Livingstons toward the Pacific Coast, and Bishop Kruger, about eight o'clock on this day, finds Miss Travenion waiting for him at the Townsend House.
The girl comes down into the parlor very simply dressed, but perhaps more beautiful than ever, to his pastoral eyes, for he remarks to himself, "Be Gosh! She looks homelike and domestic."
"My father!" she says shortly. Then gazing round, she goes on impetuously: "He is not here—he feared to see me—he is ashamed!"
"What! that he's a Mormon?" yells Kruger, savagely. "A true man glories in that; so does your daddy. Perhaps some day you'll jine him."
"Hush!" says Erma. "Don't speak of it," and she shudders. Then she asks, "Where's my father now?"
"In town! But I ain't told him you was here yit. I thought he might be——"
"Ashamed!" cries the girl, but suddenly pauses. Kruger's looks alarm her.
"If I thought as how R. H. Travenion was ashamed of the holy Church of our Latter-Day Saints, I'd cut him off root and branch in this world and the next," he says, the wild gleam of fanaticism coming into his deep eyes. "I swear it, by the Book of Mormon!" Erma knows this man means his words, for Lot Kruger is a fanatic, and believes in his creed and in Joseph Smith, as truly as the Dervish believes in Allah and Mahomet. "Your daddy is in town," he goes on more calmly, "but I feared he might be flustered if he knew you had come upon him, as it were, in the night, and so I kept my mouth shut."
"Will you bring him to me now?"
"Yes, in an hour!"
So, Mr. Kruger departs on his errand, but shortly re-appears, and says, "We have missed him agin. Your daddy's left for Tintic on the stage this morning at eight o'clock."
"Very well," answers Miss Travenion shortly. "I'll go to Tintic also."
This suggestion pleases Bishop Kruger so much that he cries, "Right you are! Ye're true grit, Sissy! You'd better go down by private conveyance. It'll be much more pleasant for ladies."
"Oh, I am alone now; my maid has left me," answers Miss Travenion; and this remark delights her auditor more than he would like her to guess. He goes on happily, "It's only seventy-five or eighty or perhaps ninety miles from here. You can drive down in a day with a good, tough bronco-team, but still you had better take it slowly and stop over night at Milo Johnson's."
"Alone in a Mormon house?" shudders the girl.
"Oh, you'll be as safe thar as if you were in your bed on Fifth Avenue. You can travel all over here, provided you do not hurt our feelings, as safe as if you was in Connecticut—more so—we don't have no burglars around here!" says Lot, reassuringly.
Making inquiries at the hotel office, Miss Travenion finds that the Mormon bishop's advice has been good. Then, being provided at the hotel with a private team, she comes down at ten o'clock in the day, to depart for Tintic, and is surprised to see the attentive Kruger ready to assist her into the light wagon, which has a top to keep off dust and sun.
"You didn't expect any one to see you off!" he remarks. "But most every one here would do a heap for Bishop Tranyon's darter." Then he chuckles: "Ye're kind o' one o' us now!" and drives the iron into Erma's soul.
"Thank you. I suppose you mean it for a compliment," she says, attempting lightness, though her lip twitches. "But I am a little different still, to a Mormon girl!" and gets into the carriage before he can aid her.
"So you are! Ye're a prize-book picture," he mutters, looking at her till his eyes blink from some subtle passion, for Miss Travenion is dressed in a cool, gray linen travelling costume, that fits her charming figure with a "riding habit" fit, till it reaches white cuffs and snowy collar, and a little foot, that in its French kid boot looks as if it had come out of a fashion plate. Thus attired, she makes a very breezy, attractive picture; though there is no one to enjoy it, save Kruger, for the heat, even on this October day, has driven loungers from the sidewalk.
Then turning from her, as she drives down the State road, this Mormon fanatic remarks: "Gee hoss! Don't this give the Church a pull upon the daddy, and Lot Kruger a hold upon the darter!" and so goes to a little building on South Temple Street devoted to the business affairs of the Latter-Day Saints.
Miss Travenion, raising a little sunshade over a face made beautiful by conflicting emotions, journeys down the State road, which leads towards the south—past the Utah Southern Railway, that is now being graded, and after a dusty seven hours' ride comes to the Point-of-the-Mountain. Here she is very hospitably entertained, and well treated, by one of the many wives of Milo Johnson, who lives at this place.
Then the next morning, so as to travel in the cool portion of the day, leaving almost at daylight, after a hot breakfast, and taking her lunch with her, she crosses the ford of the Jordan—the river that runs from the fresh lake of Utah to its salt inland sea. So coming to its western shore, she journeys along the banks of beautiful Utah Lake—placid as a mirror—leaving Ophir and Camp Floyd and Tooele far to her west.
To the east, across the limpid waters, she notes, buried in their orchards, the Mormon towns of Provo, Springfield, Payson, and Spanish Fork. Behind them the great Wahsatch range, and, further to the south, the great mountain that they call "Nebo," which rises snow-capped, dominating the scene.
About midway down the west side of the lake, she and the driver of the carriage eat their lunch. Then proceeding onward till almost at the upper end of this quiet water, she leaves its banks, and, after two or three miles of sage brush, enters a little cañon, with a brawling stream running down it. Very shortly to her comes the odor of garlic and arsenic from the smelting works at Homansville, whose great furnaces she soon sees, giving out clouds of smoke.
Passing these, three miles further up the valley she comes to Eureka. Here, making inquiry at the store of Baxter & Butterfield, she is directed to the Zion's Co-operative Mining Institution, whose works stand a mile or more beyond, towards Silver City.
So, in another half an hour Miss Travenion, turning from the main road and driving up a little spur of the mountain, past one or two dug-outs and miner's cabins, gets out of the wagon at the door of a house built of rough lumber, and says nervously to a man in high, muddy boots and blue shirt, greasy with candle drippings: "Is Bishop Tranyon in?"
"Yes, he is in the back room," and, pointing to the door, the miner goes off to his work.
She enters, and seated upon a wooden chair, looking over some accounts at a deal table, is the man they call Bishop Tranyon, and she says to him:—"Father!"
At her word, Ralph Travenion, once New York exquisite, now Mormon bishop, staggers up, trembles, and, gazing on her, cries: "Erma! my God!Youhere?"
Then, forcing back some awful emotion, his voice grows tender as he says: "Why, this is a surprise, darling! You have travelled all the way from New York to see your father. God bless you, child of my heart!" and there are tears in his deep eyes, and he would approach her and put his arms about her, giving her a father's kiss.
But she starts from him, shudders, and gasps: "Don't dare to kiss me!"
"Why not?"
"Because I know what you are."
"My God! You know—" and the strong man turns from her, and hides his face in his quivering hands.
Then she goes on, faltering a little over the words, but still goes on: "Why have you disgraced our name? Why have you become a Mormon—aPolygamist?"
Here he astonishes her by whispering, with white lips, these curious words: "I did it that I might settle upon you a million! For your sake I became Mormon—for your sake I became polygamist. I DID IT FOR BUSINESS PURPOSES!"
For a moment, Erma believes this extraordinary statement, and falters, seeming almost to invite his caresses, at least not to repulse them.
Seeing this, Ralph Travenion mutters, "Thank God, you believe me!" and flies to take her in his arms; but suddenly her dead mother's face seems to the girl to rise between her father and herself. She shudders, turns away from him, and says coldly: "You ask me to believe this monstrous thing,—that for my sake you became a Mormon?"
"Yes, as God is above me!—to make you rich,—to place you above the care of poverty,—to surround you with luxury,—the thing that has been my one thought in life."
"Was that your thought?" cries the girl suddenly, with a face that to him is beautiful as an angel's, but just as that of the angel's God—"was that your thought when you entered into polygamous marriage with those women down there? Oh, don't attempt to deny it!" for he is about to open his lips. "I saw two of them. I was at the Sunday-school meeting of the Twenty-fifth Ward, and beheld your hostages to your faith—five little ones, I believe. One of them, a girl, Mr. Oliver Livingston was kind enough to say, looked like me."
To this, for a moment, he does not reply. Then suddenly, forcing his tongue to do his wish, he repeats: "For your sake I did that also!"
"For my sake?" gasps Erma, astounded, then cries out: "Absurd! Impossible!" and having exhausted tears two days before, mocks him with unbelieving laugh.
"As God is above me!"
"Prove it!"
"I will!" And so, being driven to his defence, and knowing that he is pleading for his own happiness—for this child of hisotherlife is to Ralph Travenion, once club man of New York City, but now Mormon bishop of Salt Lake, the thing he loves best in this world—he begins to tell his story, earnestly, as a man struggling to win the lost respect and esteem of the one woman whose respect and esteem he must have,—pathetically, as a father striving to keep his daughter's love.
His voice trembles slightly as he begins: "In New York, Wall Street practically ruined me. The ample fortune that I had determined to devote to your happiness and your life, Erma, my daughter, had passed from me. I had, after leaving sufficient for your education, but a few thousand dollars to take with me to this Western world. I had promised my old friend to settle a million dollars on you, so that if he kept his contract to make over a like amount to his son, you could wed Oliver Livingston and take the place in New York society to which you had been born. To keep this promise, I left the old life that was pleasant to me, and came, God help me, tothis!" He looks about the bare room, with its rough furniture, its uncarpeted floor, its pioneer discomfort, and out through the open window over the long waste that covers the West Tintic Valley. And she looks also, and sees naught but sage brush, unrelieved save by a few floating clouds of dust that, thick and heavy, mark the course of ore-teams from the Scotia mine, making their hot and alkaline way towards the furnaces in Homansville.
Then Ralph iterates, "I came to this life for your sake," a far-away look getting into his eyes, for recollections of his old club life and the friends and companions and chums of other days, and pretty yachting excursions on the Sound, and gay opera and dinner parties andfêtesat fashionable Newport, come to this exile.
Noting this, some idea of what is in his mind comes also to his daughter, and makes her tender to him, and this change in her face gives him courage.
He goes on, "For your sake I did this!"
"For my sake it was not necessary to be a Mormon."
"To make a fortune it was!" he cries. "I wandered about the Mississippi for a year. At the end of that time, I was poorer than when I left New York. St. Louis and Chicago did not seem to me a quick enough opportunity. I came further West. I had a wild hope of making money in furs, in some stage line, as Indian trader, but found no chance, and so, in pursuit of one will-o'-the-wisp and another, I journeyed on until I found myself in Salt Lake City. Here I saw a fortune for a man of ability. The Transcontinental Telegraph Company was building its line. A contract to supply them with telegraph poles, properly handled, would make me rich. But it could be so handled only by a Mormon, and I joined the Church of Latter-Day Saints,—a stern sect, who will have no wavering disciples, no half-way apostates in its ranks. By that contract I made a considerable sum. Then the building of the Union Pacific Railway came, and by it I made a fortune, because I was a Mormon."
"A Gentile might also have succeeded," suggests his daughter.
"Impossible! As a Mormon, and only as a Mormon, I could hire thousands of Mormon laborers at one dollar and fifty cents per day,—and pay them by store orders on Zion's Co-operative Mercantile Institution, who liquidated them in goods at, practically, fifty cents on the dollar. Mormon labor cost me seventy-five cents per day against Gentile labor at three or four dollars; as a Latter-Day Saint I could command the cheap article. That is why I joined the Mormon Church—for your fortune and your happiness."
"Was it for my happiness that you accepted their infamous creed for the degradation of my sex—that you entered into plural marriage—that you are now surrounded by children of polygamy?" asks the girl, a bitter sarcasm dominating her voice.
"That was to save my life!"
"To save your life? What nonsense!"
"Hush! Listen to me!" and Ralph Travenion speaks very low, as if he almost feared the walls would hear him. "A year after I had joined it, it was spoken unto me by the President that the Church doubted my sincerity because I had not entered into polygamy. To be doubted in those days,—in 1865 and '66,—meant the atonement of blood, such as was carried out on Almon, Babbitt and the Parrishes—it meant being cut off 'below the ears.' Had I died here then, my fortune would have never been accumulated for you. You would not now have a million to give you prestige,—to give you power,—to make you reign beauty as you are. You would not now be called Miss Dividends," and the old man would put his arms about his daughter to caress her, and take her to his heart—for her loveliness has made him, her father, very proud.
But Erma cries to him hoarsely, "What kind of a dividend have you given me?The dividend of shame!Society shudders and turns from me. The Livingstons have already done so."
To this he answers, "My God, what do you mean?" sinking upon a candle-box that does duty as a chair in this uncouth department.
"I mean this," cries Erma, "that when they discovered that I was the daughter of a Mormon, that I had little illegitimate half-brothers and sisters, they fled from me as if I were tainted and left me to the kindness of Bishop Kruger."
"Kruger knows you are here?" This is a wail of anguish from Travenion that makes his daughter start.
She answers him, though the old man's agitation frightens her. "Certainly. He learnt of my coming in New York, and returned on the same train with the Livingstons and myself to Salt Lake City. He——"
But Erma pauses, astonished and horrified, the effect of her simple words upon her father is so tremendous.
He is wringing his hands and muttering, "They have me now. My heart is in their hands!" Then he steps quickly to the door, and she hears him speak to the man who has driven her from Salt Lake. "Take your horses to the stable at Eureka. Feed and water them and be ready to return this evening at seven o'clock."
"I don't see as I can, bishop," answers the driver. "The team won't stand it. They are putty nigh tuckered out now."
"Then be ready to-morrow morning," he says hurriedly, and returns to the room where Erma still sits, and sighs to himself, "I don't suppose it would be much use. If they know you are here, they know that they have my heart in their hands."
"Your heart in their hands? What do you mean by that?" whispers the young lady.
"I meanyou! You are my heart,—you. My darling! My pet! My treasure! Who has put peril upon herself because she loved her old papa!" and before she can prevent it, he has her in his arms and is pressing her to his heart, and caressing her, and crying over her the tears of a strong man in his extremity.
And now she struggles not, for his kisses bring remembrance of his other kisses in happier days, in far-away New York, when she has looked for his coming at her school, and afterwards as a young lady has flown to this heart, that she knows has always beat for her.
After a moment, his agitation and words make her ask, "What latent danger is there to me?"
"Nothing immediate," he answers. "Perhaps none at all—perhaps I am a fool; for in 1871 there are many Gentiles in this Territory, and United States troops at Camp Douglas.But I remember!And the thought of what once was, makes me fear what may now be." Then he says suddenly and impressively, as if some new idea alarmed him, "Tell me about your trip from New York. Omit no details.Minutiæmay mean safety for us both. But first—" And it now being the dusk of the evening, he illuminates the room with the flicker of a coal-oil lamp and the yellow glow of a tallow dip, and places her very tenderly on the only chair in the room.
Seated on this, she tells him her story, he interrupting her now and then to ask pertinent questions, most of them in regard to the actions of Kruger. And getting answers that he doesn't like, he seems to grow more despondent the more her words indicate the Mormon bishop has taken interest in her movements.
But as she tells about Harry Lawrence, and the trouble the injunction on his mine has brought upon the young man, the old man's eyes gleam and he chuckles: "Yes, I rather think I have put that bantam into a business hole he won't get out of!"
He seems so happy and so triumphant over this affair, that Erma, his daughter as she is, almost hates him.
This brings her to her contribution to Harry's bank account, to defeat Bishop Tranyon of Salt Lake and Zion's Co-operative Mining Institution, and telling this with some embarrassment and pauses and blushes, she notes her father's face grow long and his features puzzled.
Then, as she describes her visit to the Twenty-fifth Ward meeting, and Oliver Livingston's treatment of her after his discovery that she is the daughter of a polygamist, he mutters sadly: "To see you married to Livingston—a man of your own rank and place in New York society—has been the hope of my old age!"
Here the girl astonishes him. She answers: "Had you been the greatest saint this earth has ever seen, Oliver Livingston would never have had me for his wife. Besides"—and she laughs airily—"I could have Mr. Ollie back at my side in a week. He loves my million well enough to take me for it."
"Then bring him back!"
"Never!"
"Never! Why not?" This last almost savagely.
"BecauseIwill not marryhim!"
There is an enthusiasm and determination in the girl's manner that makes this gentleman—who is well accustomed to reading men, and perhaps has had some experience, in his plural marriages, of women—suddenly cry out: "No, you will not wed Livingston because you love another!"
"Who is that?" says the girl, attempting a laugh, but her face becoming very red in the dim light of flickering tallow and kerosene oil.
"Harry Lawrence, who hates Bishop Tranyon of Salt Lake so much that I hardly think he will marry the daughter of Ralph Travenion of New York!" returns her father easily.
But Erma does not answer this. She has turned away to the window, and is looking down the hill and over the alkaline plains, and her blushes are only seen by a jack-rabbit who peers at her from behind a sage bush.
Then she faces her father and cries: "No matter what comes, you shall do justice to Harry Lawrence! You shall withdraw your claim to his property!"
"Oh ho!" laughs the Mormon. "Give up what I am on the point of winning? Bishop Tranyon of Salt Lake will never do that. That is not his style."
"No," cries the girl; "but my father, Ralph Travenion, of New York, who was once worthy the love of all who knew him, will do justice to a wronged man, because he still loves the daughter who has travelled over two thousand miles to meet him here, and who he says has brought peril upon herself, for love of him!" And looking on him, her eyes grow soft and tender as they used to gaze at him when she was proud of him at party andfêtein far-away New York, as she murmurs: "What will Ralph Travenion do for his daughter?"
"For his daughter's sake, Ralph Travenion will do anything!" mutters the old man; then says pathetically, almost brokenly: "For God's sake, give me one kiss of your own will! You have spoken to me an hour, and as yet no daughter's kiss!"
With that the girl comes to him, puts her arms about him, and kisses him, as she used to when she was a child, and before she knew he was a Mormon and a polygamist.
"Do with me what you will!" he continues. "What do you want for this young man, who I can see is getting the first place in your heart?"
"Justice!" cries Erma. "I want you to telegraph your lawyer to stipulate that the injunction on his mine be removed."
"And what more?"
"Resign your claim to his property."
"But Kruger also owns stock in the Zion Co-operative Mining Institution."
"Buy his stock!"
"Very well, though you are robbing yourself!" mutters the man. "I'll do it!—if—if you'll forgive me."
"I'll forgive you, if you'll let me lead you away from this awful place—away from sin!" cries Erma.
But here he astonishes and horrifies her, for he whispers to her: "Yes, if we can get away alive!"
"What is to stop us?" falters the young lady.
Before answering her, Ralph takes up the light, walks into the other room, examines it; goes up the ladder, into the loft overhead, and finally inspects the outside of the house; then he returns, saying: "No one is within hearing!" comes up to her, and whispers:
"The Mormon Church!"
"What authority has the Mormon Church over me?" asks the young lady, raising her voice a little.
"Hush! Not so loud!" he returns. "The Mormon Church claims authority over the children, by virtue of their authority over the parent. In ordinary cases they perhaps would not at this late date exercise it, but in my case it is different. I am so prominent. They know to lose me would be a blow to them. At present they have lost several rich members, and they are desperate! And I"—here his lips approach her ear, and form rather than say the words—his voice is so low, his lips so trembling—"and I have been making arrangements toapostatize!"
"God bless you for that!" cries Erma.
To this he whispers: "You don't suppose that I ever swallowed the dogmas of Joe Smith, which I preached as Mormon bishop? I joined them to desert them the moment I had made what money I wanted out of these Latter-Day Saints!" And, forgetting himself, he gives out two or three jeering scoffs. But the next moment his face grows frightened, and he mutters: "I have been"—his voice is very low again—"making arrangements to withdraw all my property from this Territory. I have now in New York, besides the million settled on you, a very large sum of money; but I have also such a block of stock of the Utah Central Railway that, if I sell it to the right parties, the Mormon Church will lose control of the road; that I have not yet been able to remove. But they suspect me!" he goes on dolefully. "I have been asked to immediately pay my tithing, which they figure at one hundred thousand dollars for this year, claiming that I have made a million. I have hidden the stock and I was about to refuse, but your coming here has made that, I fear, impossible."
Then he wrings his hands, and says: "When an apostate is cut off, he is destroyed—root and branch. The family suffer as well as the man, and you—andyou, Erma—you!"
"Your stock! Is it near here?" asks the girl eagerly.
"Certainly." Here he whispers to her: "In case of anything happening to me, it is hidden in the level running from Shaft No. 2 in the mine, on this hillside. It is in a tin box under the fourth set of timbers to the right of the incline. Remember it!"
"Why not take it? Leave to-night—fly on horseback."
"Where?"
"To the Pacific Railroad."
He laughs grimly, and taking her to the window, cries: "This is a fine country to get out of!" Then he points over the sage brush and explains: "To the west is the Tintic Valley—thirty miles of alkali; but, beyond it, hills and one spring; then one hundred miles of desert, burning sand, and no water that man or beast can drink. Could we travel over that and live to reach the railroad? To the south,—Mormon settlements on the Servier River—Beaver, Parowan, the very hot-bed of Mormonism. Beyond them, Lee's Ferry on the Colorado!" And he shudders as he mentions the name of John D. Lee, not as yet sacrificed by the Mormon Church, for whom he murdered one hundred and thirty-three men, women, and children, at Mountain Meadows. "After Lee's Ferry, deserts and the Apache. To the east, Mormon settlements—Santaquin, Nephi, Juab, Manti—and, back of them, the impassable desert-plateaus and mountain ranges of the Rockies—mighty rivers that foam through gorges thousands of feet deep—and Ute Indians!"
"But to the north, father—the way I came—hardly one hundred miles!"
"That is our only path," mutters the man. Then he says, doubtingly: "But still all Mormon. We may never reach Salt Lake City."
"Who'll stop us?"
"That will never be known! But it is our one chance, and, once in Salt Lake, I think they dare not touch me. I'll make arrangements to take you up to-morrow. Come with me now to the hotel."
"Why cannot I stay with you?"
"Humph!" he laughs. "The hotel is better than this. There is only one bed here. Besides, some one would say," he chuckles rather grimly, "Bishop Tranyon has taken another wife! And I do not wish it to be generally known you are my daughter. Then, too, I have a telegram to send."
"Oh, yes!" cries the girl, "for Captain Lawrence!" And she accompanies him down the trail that winds to the road coming from Silver City to Eureka.
So, in about half an hour, Miss Travenion finds herself seated at a comfortable supper in the hotel. And some time after—her father having gone off to send the promised telegram—being very tired, she goes up to her room, where she finds a clean cot bed, and goes to rest, thinking: "If my life is ruined, his life has been, perhaps, made more happy by this day's work—he will be rich."
So, pondering of the absent man, who is not yet her lover, yet whom she now knows she loves, she murmurs: "He will come here to put men at work once more upon his mine; he will learn that I am the daughter of Tranyon, the Mormon bishop!" and shudders and writhes at the thought. Next she says more hopefully: "Perhaps when he finds his property his own once more he will not hate the Mormon bishop so much as he did yesterday," and this seems to comfort her a little, for she goes to sleep.
Early next morning, Erma is awakened by her father's sharp knock upon the door. He whispers to her: "Quick! You must be ready to start soon!"
But, a few minutes after, coming into the hall, she hears: "Wall, bishop, did Miss Ermie arrive all right? I saw her off in good style, and I've come down here, first to look after the mine, and then to consult ye on some church business. What a beautiful lamb of Zion your darter is!"
It is the voice of Kruger, the Mormon! And Miss Travenion grows pale as marble, for she knows that the Church of Latter-Day Saints has its eye on Tranyon, its bishop, and Erma, his daughter, last season's prize-beauty in New York society, and Newport's latest summer craze; but now regarded by the Prophet Brigham and his Council of Seventy, as one of the elect of Zion, whom God has given into their hands to save, or lose—to elect, or to cut off, even unto the atonement of blood.
The very telegram Erma thinks may bring Harry Lawrence to her side, curiously enough keeps him from her.
It comes about in two little episodes—one of sorrow, one of joy.
On the day Miss Travenion left Salt Lake City, at eleven o'clock, the young man calls at the Townsend House, to keep the appointment Erma has made for him with her father. He comes up to the office of that hotel, rather light-hearted, considering his desperate straits financially. He is about to see the girl he loves—she who, in wild moments, since her generosity of yesterday, he thinks may have some interest in him; for otherwise why should she take such pains to have him see her father?
He asks lightly: "Is Miss Travenion in?"
"Miss Travenion has gone," says the clerk, a little curtly, for the sudden departure of the Livingstons has not altogether pleased the hotel office.
"And the Livingstons—" asks Lawrence, hurriedly.
"The whole party went to California this morning at five o'clock, on the Ogden train," answers the youth behind the counter indifferently, for Mormon hotel clerks are quite often as careless as Gentile hotel clerks.
After a moment of blank astonishment, Harry suggests: "Any letter for Captain Lawrence?"
"Yes," replies the clerk, and hands him an envelope, the feminine handwriting on which he knows, and it gives back to him hope,—for one moment. Stepping aside a little, he opens it; and the sun, shining so brilliantly this bright October day, goes out of the heavens—for him. For he sees a lady's visiting card which looks like this: