University of Virginia Library

THE MORMON'S WIFE.
By ROSE TERRY.

“I DON'T think much, my young friend, of those Mormons!
I have had some reasons of my own for disliking
them!” said Parson Field to me, as we sat together, one
August noon, in the porch of his red house at Plainfield.

“Do tell me, sir,” said I, settling myself in an easy attitude
to hear his story — for a story from Parson Field was
not to be despised — his quaint simplicity bringing out, in
old-time and expressive phrases, whatever he describes with
the clear fidelity of an interior by Mieris. “Do tell me,”
said I again, with a deeper emphasis; whereat the old gentleman
looked at me over his spectacles, and, smiling benignantly
into my eager face, began.

“When I first came to Plainfield,” said he, “more than
thirty years ago, I had been a minister of the Lord only ten
years, and I had been settled for that period of time in a
large city, where I served acceptably to a worthy congregation;
but certain reasons of my own induced me to leave
that situation, and come here to live, where also I found
acceptance, and not many months after I came there was a
considerable reviving of the work in this place, and many
believed. Of these was a certain Joseph Frazer, a young

Scotchman, concerning whom I felt much misgiving, lest he
should take the wrong path; but he, in due season, joined
himself to the church, and edified the brethren in walk and
conversation; so that, when he left Plainfield and settled in
the West Indies, we were loth to have him go.

“Some years afterwards we heard he was married there
to a lady of Spanish extraction, and a Catholic; and, after
ten years elapsed, she died, leaving him one child, a daughter,
eight years of age, and with her he came to Plainfield,
desiring that the child, whom he had named Adeline, after
his own mother, should have a New England training.

“But, wonderful are the ways of Providence! On his return
to Cuba, he perished in the vessel, which went down
in a heavy gale off Cape Hatteras; and when the news
came to his mother, old Mrs. Frazer, she sent for me that I
should tell the child Adeline, for she had given proofs of a
singular nature, ardent and self-confident in the extreme.
I took my hat, and went over to Mrs. Frazer's, with a very
heavy heart, for the grief of a child is a fearful thing to me,
and to be the bringer of evil tidings, that shall stain the
pureness and calm of a child's thoughts with the irreparable
shadow of death, is no light thing, nor easily to be done. I
entered into the house one day in June: it was a very sweet
day, and, as I walked quietly into the low kitchen, I saw
Adeline, with her head resting on her hands, and her large
eyes eagerly gazing out of the window at the gambols of a
scarlet-throated humming-bird. I went close to her, and
thought to myself that I would speak, but I did not, for I
saw that, in her little pale face, which made me more sad
than before; and I had it on my lips to say, `Adeline, are
you homesick?' (which was the thing of all others I should
not say) when suddenly she turned about, and answered the
question before I spoke it.

“`Sir,' said she, `I wish I was in Cuba. I had just such
a humming-bird at home; and I fed it with orange boughs

full of white flowers, every day; but you have no orange
trees here, and I have no papa!'

“It seemed to me that the child's angel had thus opened
the way for me to speak, and I began to say some things
about the love of our universal Father, when she laid her
little hand on my arm with a fearfully strong pressure.
`Mr. Field,' said she, `is my papa dead!' I never shall
forget the eyes that looked that question into mine. I felt
like an unveiled spirit before their eager, piercing stare. I
did not answer except by a strong quiver of feeling that
would run over my features, for I loved her father even as
a kinsman, and I needed to say nothing more, for the child
fell at my feet quite rigid, and I called Mrs. Frazer, who
tried all her nurse-arts to restore little Adeline; but was
forced, at last, to send for a physician, who bled the child,
and brought her round.

“In the mean time I had gone home to prepare my sermon,
for it was not yet finished, and the day was Friday;
but I kept seeing that little lifeless face, all orphaned as it
was, and the Scripture, `As one whom his mother comforteth,'
was so borne in upon my mind, that, although I had
previously fixed upon one adapted to a setting forth of the
doctrine of election, I was wrought upon to make the other
the subject of my discourse: and truly the people wept;
almost all but Adeline, who sat in the square pew with her
great eyes fixed upon me, and her small lips apart, like one
who drinks from the stream of a rock.

“The next day I was resting, as my custom is, after the
Sabbath; and in a warm, fair day, I find no better rest than
to sit by the open window, and breathe the summer air, and
fill my eyes and heart with the innumerable love-tokens that
God hath set thickly in Nature. I was, therefore, at my
usual place, wrapt in thought, and beholding the labors of a
small bird which taught her young to fly, when I felt a
light, cold touch, and, turning, saw little Adeline beside me.

`Sir,' said she, without any preface, `when my papa went
away, he left with me a letter, which he said I was to give
you if he died.' So far she spoke steadily, but there the
small voice quivered, and broke down. I took the letter
she proffered me, and, breaking the seal, found it a short
but touching appeal to me, as the spiritual father of Joseph
Frazer, to take his own child under my care, and be as a
father to her, inasmuch as his mother was old and feeble,
and also to be executor of his will, of which a copy was enclosed.
I said this much to the child as shortly as I could,
and with her grave voice she replied, `Sir, I should like to
be your little girl, if you will preach me some more sermons.'
Now I was affected at this answer; not the less
that the leaven of pride, which worketh in every man, was
fed by even a baby's praise; and, putting on my hat, I
walked over to Mrs. Frazer's house and laid the matter before
her. She was not, at first, willing to give Adeline up,
but at length, after much converse to and fro, she came to
my conclusion, that the child would be better in my hands,
inasmuch as she herself could not hope for a long continuance:
and as it was ordered, she died the next summer. I
sent for my sister Martha, who was somewhat past marriageable
years, but kind and good, to come and keep house
for me, and from that time Adeline was as my own child.
But I must hasten over a time, for I am too long in telling
this.

“In course of years the child grew up, tall and slender,
of a very stately carriage, and having that Scriptural glory
of a woman, long and abundant hair.

“She was still very fervid in her feelings, but reserved
and proud, and I fear I had been too tender with her for
her good, inasmuch as she thought her own will and pleasure
must always be fulfilled; and we all know that is not one of
the ordinations of Providence.

“As Adeline came to be a woman, divers youths of my

congregation were given to call of a Sabbath night, with
red apples for me, and redder cheeks for Adeline, who was
scarcely civil to them, and often left them to my conversation,
which they seemed not to relish so much as would
have been pleasing to human nature.

“But my sainted mother, who was not wanting in the
wisdom of this world, was used to say that every man and
woman had their time of crying for the moon, and while
some knew it to be a burning fire, and others scornfully
called it cheese, and if they got it, either burned their fingers,
or despised their desire, still all generations must have
their turn, and truly I believed it, when I found that Adeline
herself began to have a pining for something which I
could not persuade her to specify. The child grew thin and
pale, and ceased the singing of psalms at her daily task, and
I could not devise what should be done for her; though
Martha strongly recommended certain herb teas, which Adeline
somewhat unreasonably rebelled against. However,
about this time, my attention was a little turned from her,
as there was much religious awakening in the place, and
among others, whom the deacons singled out as special objects
of attention, was one John Henderson, a frequent visitor
at our house, and a young man of good parts and kindly
feeling, as it seemed, but of a peculiar nature, being easily
led into either right or wrong, yet still given to fits of stubbornness,
when he could not be drawn, so to speak, with a
cart-rope.

“Now Adeline had been a professor of religion for some
years, but it did not seem to me that she took a right view
of this particular season, for many times she refused to go
to the prayer-meetings, even to those which were held with
special intentions towards the unconverted; and many times,
on my return, I found her with pale cheeks and red eyes,
evidently from tears. About this time, also, she began to
take long, solitary walks, from which she returned with her

hands full of wild flowers, for it was now early spring; but
she cared nothing for the flowers, and would scatter them
about the house to fade, without a thought. In the mean
time, the revival progressed, but, I lament to say, with no
visible change in John Henderson. He had gotten into one
of his stubborn moods of mind, and neither heaven nor hell
seemed to affect him. The only softening I could perceive
in the young man was during the singing of hymns, which
was well done in our meeting-house, for Adeline led the
choir, and I noticed that, whenever that part of the exercises
began, John Henderson would lift up his head, and a strange
color and tender expression seemed to melt the hard lines
of his face.

“Somewhere about the latter end of April, as I was returning
from a visit to a sick man, I met John coming from
a piece of woods, that lay behind my house about a mile,
with his hands full of liverwort blossoms. I do not know
why this little circumstance gave me comfort, yet, I have
ever observed, that a man who loves the manifestations of
God in his works is more likely to be led into religion than
a brutal or a mere business man: so I was desirous of
speaking to the youth, but when he saw me he turned from
the straight path, and, like an evil-doer, fled across the
fields another way. I did not call after him, for some experience
has constrained me to think that there is no little
wisdom in sometimes letting people alone, but I took my
own way home, and having put on my cloth shoes to ease
my feet, and being in somewhat of a maze of thought, I
went up to my study, as it seemed, very quietly, for I entered
at the open door and found Adeline sitting in my armchair
by the window, quite unaware of my nearness. I
well remember how like a spirit she looked that day, with
her great eyes raised to a cloud that rested in the bright
sky, her soft black hair twisted into a crown about her
head, and her light dress falling all over the chair, while in

her hands, lying between the slight fingers, and by the bluer
veins, was clasped a bunch of liverwort blossoms. Then I
perceived, for the first time, why my child was crying for the
moon, and that John Henderson cared for the singing and
not for the hymns, at which I sorrowed. But I sat down
by Ada, and taking the flowers out of her cold hands, began
to say that I had met John Henderson on the road with
some such blossoms, at which she looked at me even as she
did when I told her about her father, and, seeing that I
smiled, and yet was not dry-eyed, nor quite at rest, the tears
began, slowly, to run over her eyelashes, and in a few very
resolute words, she told me that Mr. Henderson had asked
her that morning to marry him.

“Now I knew not well what to say, but I set myself
aside, as far as I could, and tried not to remember how sore
a trial it would be to part with Ada, and I reasoned with
her calmly about the youth, setting forth, first, that he was
not a professing Christian, and that the Scripture seemed
plain to me on that matter, though I would not constrain
her conscience if she found it clear in this thing; and, second,
that he was a man who held fast to this world's goods,
and was like to be a follower of Mammon if he learned not
to love better things in his youth; and, third, that he was a
man who had, as one might say, a streak of granite in his
nature, against which a feeling person would continually fall
and be hurt, and which no person could work upon, if once
it came in the way even of right action. To all this Adeline
answered with more reason than I supposed a woman
could, only that I noticed, at the end of each answer, she
said in a low voice, as if it were the end of all contention, —
`and I love him.' Whereby, seeing that the thing was well
past my interference, I gave my consent with many doubts
and fears in my heart, and, having blessed the child, I sent
her away that I might meditate over this matter.

“When John came in the evening for his answer, I was

enabled to exhort him faithfully, and, in his softened state of
feeling, he chose to tell me that he had been seeking religion
because he feared I would not give him Adeline unless
he were joined to the church, and he could not make a hypocrite
of himself, even for that, but he had hoped that in the
use of means he might be awakened and converted. At
this I was pleased, inasmuch as it showed a spirit of truth
in the young man, but I could not avoid setting before him
that self-seeking had never led any soul to God, and how
cogent a reason he had himself given for his want of success
in things pertaining to his salvation; but as I spoke Ada
came in by the other door, and John's eyes began to wander
so visibly, that I thought it best to conclude, and I must say
he appeared grateful. So I went out of the door, leaving
Ada stately and blushing as a fair rose-tree, notwithstanding
that John Henderson seemed to fancy she needed his support.

“As the year went on, and I could not in conscience let
Adeline leave me until her lover had some fixed maintenance,
I had many conversations with him, (for he also was
an orphan,) and it was at length decided that he should buy,
with Ada's portion, a goodly farm in Western New York;
and in the ensuing summer, after a year's engagement, they
were to marry. So the summer came; I know not exactly
what month was fixed for their marriage, though I have the
date somewhere, but one thing I recollect, that the hop-vine
over this porch was in full bloom, and after I had joined my
child and the youth in the bands of wedlock, I went out into
the porch to see them safe into the carriage that was to take
them to the boat, and there Ada put her arms about my
neck, and kissed me for good-by, leaving a hot tear upon my
cheek; and a south wind at that moment smote the hop-vine
so that its odor of honey and bitterness mingled swept
across my face, and always afterward this scent made me
think of Adeline. After two years had passed away, during

which we heard from her often, we heard that she had a
little daughter born, and her letters were full of joy and
pride, so that I trembled for the child's spiritual state; but
after some three years the little girl with her mother came
to Plainfield, and I did not know but Adeline was excusable
in her joy, for such a fair and bright child was scarcely
ever seen; but the next summer came sad news: little
Nelly was dead, and Ada's grief seemed inexhaustible,
while her husband fell into one of his sullen states of mind,
and the affliction passed over them to no good end, as it
seemed.

“Soon after this, the Mormon delusion began to spread
rapidly about John Henderson's dwelling-place, and in less
than a year after Nelly's death I had a letter from Ada,
dated at St. Louis, which I will read to you, for I have it
in my pocket-book, having retained it there since yesterday,
when I took it out from the desk to consult a date.

“I need not say, my young friend,” resumed Parson
Field, wiping his spectacles, and clearing his voice with a
vigorous ahem!! “that I could not, in conscience, approve
of Adeline's course. `Thou shalt not do evil that good may
come,' is a Gospel truth, and cannot be transgressed with
good consequences. I did write to Ada; but, inasmuch as
the act was done, I said not much concerning it, but bade
her take courage, seeing that she had meant to do right,
although in the deed she had considered John Henderson
before anything else, which was, as you may perceive, her
besetting sin, and therefore it seemed good to me to put, at
the end of my epistle, (as I was wont always to offer a suitable
text of Scripture for her meditation,) these words,
`Little children, keep yourselves from idols!' I did not
hear again from Adeline, till she had been two months in
the Mormon city, and though she tried her best to seem
contented and peaceful, in view of John's new zeal, and his
tender care of her, still I could not but think of the hop-blossoms,
for I perceived, underneath this present sweetness,
a little drop of life and pain working to some unseen
end. That year passed away and we heard no more, and

the next also, at which I wondered much; but, reflecting
on the chances of travel across those deserts, and having a
surety of Ada's affection for me, I did not repine, though I
felt some regret that there was such uncertainty of carriage;
nevertheless, I wrote as usual, that no chance might be lost.

“The third summer was unusually warm in our parts, and
its heats following upon a long, wet spring, caused much and
grievous sickness, and I was obliged to be out at all hours
with the dying, and at funerals, so that my bodily strength
was wellnigh exhausted, and at haying-time, just as I was
cutting the last swarth on my river meadow, which is low-lying
land, and steamed with hot vapor as I laid it bare to
the sun, I fell forward across my scythe-snath and fainted.
This was the beginning of a long course of fever, of a typhoid
character, during which I was either stupid or delirious
most of the time, and, while I lay sick, there came a
letter to me, from Salt Lake city, written chiefly by John
Henderson, who begged me to come on if it was a possible
thing and see his wife, who was wasting with a slow consumption,
and much bent upon seeing me. I could discern
that the letter was not willingly written; it was stiff in
speech, though writ with a trembling hand. At the end of
it were a few lines from Ada herself; a very impatient and
absolute cry for me, as if she could not die till I came.
Now Martha had opened this letter, as she was forced to by
my great illness, and, having read it, asked the doctor if it
was well to propound the contents to me, and he said decidedly
that he could not answer for my life if she did: so
Martha, like a considerate woman, wrote an answer herself
to John Henderson (of which she kept a copy for me to
see), setting forth that I was in no state to be moved with
such tidings; that, however, I should have the letter as
soon as the doctor saw fit, and sending her love and sympathy
to Ada, and a recommend that she should try balm
tea.

“After a long season of suspense, I was graciously uplifted
from fever, and enabled to leave my bed for a few
hours daily; and, when I could ride out, which was only
by the latter end of October, I was given the child's letter,
and my heart sank within me, for I knew how bitterly she
had needed my strength to help her. It was a warm autumn
day, near to noon, when I read that letter, and, as I
leaned back in my chair, the red sunshine came in upon me,
and the smell of dead leaves, while upon the hop-vine one
late blossom, spared by the white frosts, and dropping across
the window, also put forth its scent, bringing Adeline, as it
were, right back into my arms, and the faintness passed
away from me with some tears, for I was weak, and a man
may not always be stronger than his nature. Now, when
Martha sounded the horn for dinner, and our hired man
came in from the hill-lot, where he was sowing wheat, I saw
that he had a letter in his hand of great size and thickness;
and, coming into the keeping-room where I sat, he said that
Squire White had brought it over from the Post-office as he
came along, thinking I would like to have it directly. I
was rather loth to open the great packet at first, for I bethought
myself it was likely to be some Consociation proceedings,
which were never otherwise than irksome to me,
and were now weary to think of, seeing the grasshopper
had become a burden. I reached my spectacles down from
the nail, and found the post-mark to be that of the Mormon
city; and with unsteady hand I opened the seal, and found
within several sheets of written letter-paper, directed to me
in Ada's writing, and a short letter from John Henderson,
which ran thus: —

“I was really stunned for a moment, my young friend,
not only with grief at my own loss, but with pity and surprise
at the entire deadening, as it appeared, of natural affection
in the man to whom I had given my daughter; and
also my conscience was not free from offence, for I could
not but think that a more fervent and wrestling expostulation,
on the sin of marrying an unbeliever, might have saved
Adeline from sorrow in the flesh. However, I said as
much as seemed best at the time, and upon that reflection I
rested myself; for he who adheres to a pure intention, need
not repent of his deeds afterward; and the next day, when
my present anguish and weakness had somewhat abated, I
read the manuscript Ada had sent me.

“It was, doubtless, penned with much reluctance, for the
child's natural pride was great, and no less weighty subject
than her husband's salvation could have forced her to speak
of what she wrote for me: and, indeed, I should feel no
right to put the confidence into your hands, were not my
child beyond the reach of man's judgment, and did I not feel
it a sacred duty to protest, so long as life lasts, against this
abominable Mormon delusion, and the no less delusive pretext
of doing evil that good may come. I cannot read
Ada's letter aloud to you, for there is to be a funeral at two
o'clock, which I must attend; but I will give you the papers,
and you may sit in my chair and read; only, be
patient with my bees, if they come too near you, for they
like the hop-blossoms, and never sting unless you strike.”

So saying, Parson Field gave me his leathern chair and
the papers, and I sat down in the hop-crowned porch, to
read Adeline Henderson's story, with a sort of reverence for
her that prompted me to turn the rustling pages carefully,
and feel startled if a door swung to in the quiet house, as if
I were eavesdropping; but soon I ceased to hear, absorbed
in her letter, which began as the first did.