CHAPTER XXXIX.
_A Revelation Concerning the True Order of Marriage_
While matters of theology and consanguinity were being debated in BoxCanon, the little bent man down in the first house to the left, in hisstruggle to free himself, was tightening the meshes of his fate abouthim. In his harried mind he had formed one great resolution. He believedthat a revelation had come to him. It seemed to press upon him as theculmination of all the days of his distress. He could see now that hehad felt it years before, when he first met the wife of Elder Tench, thegaunt, gray woman, toiling along the dusty road; and again when he hadfound the imbecile boy turning upon his tormentors. A hundred times ithad quickened within him. And it had gained in force steadily, untilto-day, when it was overwhelming him. Now that his flesh was wasted, itseemed that his spirit could see far.
His great discovery was that the revelation upon celestial marriagegiven to Joseph Smith had been "from beneath,"--a trick of Satan tocorrupt them. Not only did it flatly contradict earlier revelations, butthe very Book of Mormon itself declared again and again that polygamywas wickedness. Joseph had been duped by the powers of darkness, and allIsrael had sinned in consequence. Upon the golden plates delivered tohim, concerning the divine source of which there could be no doubt, thisorder of marriage had been repeatedly condemned and forbidden. But as tothe revelation which sanctioned it there could rightly be doubt; for hadnot Joseph himself once warned them that "some revelations are from God,some from men, and some from the Devil." Either the Book of Mormon wasnot inspired, or the revelation was not from God, since they werefatally in opposition.
It came to him with the effect of a blinding light, yet seemed to endowhim with a new vigour, so that he felt strong and eager to be up, tospread his truth abroad. Some remnant of that old fire of inspirationflamed up within him as he lay on the hard bed in his little room, withthe summer scents floating in and the out-of-doors sounds,--a woman'svoice calling a child afar off, the lowing of cattle, the rhythmicwhetting of a scythe-blade, the echoing strokes of an axe, the mellowfluting of a robin,--all coming to him a little muted, as if he were nolonger in the world.
He raised upon his elbow, glowing with the flush of old memories whenhis heart had been perfect with the Lord; when he had wrought miraclesin the face of the people; when he had besought Heaven fearlessly forsigns of its favour; when he had dreamed of being a pillar of fire tohis people in their march across the desert, and another Lion of theLord to fight their just battles. The little bent man of sorrows hadagain become the Lute of the Holy Ghost.
He knew it must be a true revelation. And, while he might not now havestrength to preach it as it should be preached, there were other mightymen to spread its tidings. Even his simple announcement of it must worka revolution. Others would see it when he had once declared it. Otherswould spread it with power until the Saints were again become a purifiedpeople. But he would have been the prophet, seer, and revelator, to whomthe truth was given, and so his suffering would not have been in vain;perhaps that suffering had been ordained to the end that his visionshould be cleared for this truth.
He remembered the day was Saturday, and he began at once to word thephrases in which he would tell his revelation on the morrow. He knewthat this must be done tactfully, in spite of its divine source. Itwould be a momentous thing to the people and to the priesthood. It wasconceivable, indeed, that members of the latter might dispute it andargue with him, or even denounce him for a heretic. But only at first;the thing was too simply true to be long questioned. In any event, hisduty was plain; with righteousness as the girdle of his loins he mustgo forth on the morrow and magnify his office in the sight of Heaven.
When the decision had been taken he lay in an ecstasy of anticipation,feeling new pulses in all his frame and the blood warm in his face. Itwould mean a new dawn for Israel. There would, however, be a vexingdifficulty in the matter of the present wives of the Saints. The song ofLorena came in to him now:--
"I was riding out this morning With my cousin by my side; She was telling her intentions For to soon become a bride."
The accent fell upon the first and third syllables with an upward surgeof melody that seemed to make the house vibrate. He thought perhaps someof the Saints would find it well to put away all but the one rightfulwife, making due provision, of course, for their support. Lorena'snever-ending ballad came like the horns that blew before the walls ofJericho, bringing down the ramparts of his old belief. Some of theSaints would doubtless put away the false wives as a penance. He mighteven bring himself to do it, since, in the light of his wondrous newrevelation, it would be obeying the Lord's will.
When Prudence came softly in to him, like a cool little breath offragrance from the canon, he smiled up to her with a fulness of delightshe had never seen in his face before.
There was a new light in her own eyes, new decisions presaged, a newdesire imperfectly suppressed. He stroked her hand as she sat beside himon the bed, wondering if she had at last learned her own secret. But shebecame grave, and was diverted from her own affairs when she observedhim more closely.
"Why, you're sick--you're burning up with fever! You must be covered upat once and have sage tea."
He laughed at her, a free, full laugh, such as she had never heard fromhim in all the years.
"It's no fever, child. It's new life come to me. I'm strong again. Myface burns, but it must be the fire of health. I have a work given tome--God has not wholly put me aside."
"But I believe you _are_ sick. Your hands are so hot, and your eyes lookso unnatural. You must let me--"
"Now, now--haven't I learned to tell sickness from the glow of a holypurpose?"
"You're sure you are well?"
"Better than for fifteen years."
She let herself be convinced for the moment.
"Then please tell me something. Must a man who comes into our faith, ifhe is baptised rightly, also marry more than one wife if he is to besaved? Can't he be sure of his glory with one if he loves her--oh, very,_very_ much?"
He was moved at first to answer her out of the fulness of his heart,telling her of the wonderful new revelation. But there came the impulseto guard it jealously in his own breast a little longer, to glorysecretly in it; half-fearful, too, that some virtue would go out of itshould he impart it too soon to another.
"Why do you want to know?"
"Ruel Follett would join our Church if he didn't have to marry more thanone wife. If he loved some one very much, I'm afraid he would find ithard to marry another girl--oh, he simply _couldn't_--no matter howpretty she was. He never could do it." Here she pulled one of thescarlet ribbons from her broad hat. She gave a little exclamation ofrelief as if she had really meant to detach it.
"Tell him to wait a little."
"That's what I did tell him, but it seems hardly right to let him joinbelieving that is necessary. I think some one ought to find out that onewife is all God wants a man ever to have, and to tell Mr. Follett sovery plainly. His mind is really open to truth, and you know he might dosomething reckless--he shouldn't be made to wait too long."
"Tell him to wait till to-morrow. I shall speak of this in meeting then.It will be all right--all right, dear. Everything will be all right!"
"Only I am sure you are sick in spite of what you say. I know how toprove it, too--can you eat?"
"I'm too busy thinking of great things to be hungry."
"There--you would be hungry if you were well."
"I can't tell you how well I am, and as for food--our Elder Brother hasbeen feeding me all day with the bread of truth. Such wonderful newthings the Lord has shown me!"
"But you must not get up. Lie still and we will nurse you."
He refused the food she brought him, and refused Lorena's sage tea. Hewas not to be cajoled into treating as sickness the first real happinesshe had felt for years. He lay still until his little room grew shadowyin the dusk, filled with a great reviving hope that the Lord had raiseda new prophet to lead
Israel out of bondage.
As the night fell, however, the shadows of the room began to trouble himas of old, and he found himself growing hotter and hotter until heburned and gasped and the room seemed about to stifle him. He arose fromthe bed, wondering that his feet should be so heavy and clumsy, and hisknees so weak, when he felt otherwise so strong. His head, too, feltlarge, and there rang in his ears a singing of incessant quick beats. Hemade his way to the door, where he heard the voices of Prudence andFollett. It was good to feel the cool night air upon his hot face, andhe reassured Prudence, who chided him for leaving his bed.
"When you hear me discourse tomorrow you will see how wrong you wereabout my being sick," he said. But she saw that he supported himselfcarefully from the doorway along the wall to the near-by chair, andthat he sank into it with every sign of weakness. His eyes, however,were aglow with his secret, and he sat nodding his head over it in alively way. "Brigham was right," he said, "when he declared that any ofus might receive revelations from on high; even the least of us--only weare apt to be deaf to the whispered words until the Lord has scourgedus. I have been deaf a long time, but my ears are at last unstopped--whois it coming, dear?"
A tall figure, vague in the dusk, was walking briskly up the path thatled in from the road. It proved to be the Wild Ram of the Mountains,freshened by the look of rectitude that the razor gave to his face eachSaturday night.
"Evening, Brother Rae--evening, you young folks. Thank you, I will takea chair. You feeling a bit more able than usual, Brother Rae?"
"Much better, Brother Seth. I shall be at meeting tomorrow."
"Glad to hear it, that's right good--you ain't been out for so long. Andwe want to have a rousing time, too."
"Only we're afraid he has a fever instead of being so well," saidPrudence. "He hasn't eaten a thing all day."
"Well, he never did overeat himself, that I knew of," said the Bishop."Not eating ain't any sign with him. Now it would be with me. I neverbelieved in fasting the flesh. The Spirit of the Lord ain't ever soclose to me as after I've had a good meal of victuals,--meat andpotatoes and plenty of good sop and a couple of pieces of pie. Then Ican unbutton my vest and jest set and set and hear the promptings of theLord God of Hosts. I know some men ain't that way, but then's the timewhen I beautify _my_ inheritance in Zion the purtiest. And I'm mightyglad Brother Joel can turn out to-morrow. Of course you heard the news?"
"What news, Brother Seth?"
"Brother Brigham gets here at eleven o'clock from New Harmony."
"Brother Brigham _coming_?"
"We're getting the bowery ready down in the square tonight so's to haveservices out of doors."
"He's coming to-morrow?" The words came from both Prudence and herfather.
"Of course he's coming. Ben Hadley brought word over. They'll have aturkey dinner at Beil Wardle's house and then services at two."
The flushed little man with the revelation felt himself grow suddenlycold. He had thought it would be easy to launch his new truth in Amalonand let the news be carried to Brigham. To get up in the very presenceof him, in the full gaze of those cold blue eyes, was another matter.
"But it's early for him. He doesn't usually come until after Conference,after it's got cooler."
The Bishop took on the air of a man who does not care to tell quite allthat he knows.
"Yes; I suspicion some one's been sending tales to him about a certainyoung woman's carryings on down here."
He looked sharply at Prudence, who looked at the ground and feltgrateful for the dusk. Follett looked hard at them both and was plainlyinterested. The Bishop spoke again.
"I ain't got no license to say so, but having done that young womanproud by engaging himself to marry her, he might 'a' got annoyed if anyone had 'a' told him she was being waited on by a handsome youngGentile, gallivantin' off to canons day after day--holding hands, too,more than once. Oh, I ain't _saying_ anything. Young blood is youngblood; mine ain't always been old, and I never blamed the young, but, ofcourse, the needs of the Kingdom is a different matter. Well, I'll haveto be getting along now. We're going to put up some of the people at ourhouse, and I've got to fix to bed mother down in the wagon-box again, Ireckon. I'll say you'll be with us to-morrow, then, Brother Joel?"
The little bent man's voice had lost much of its life.
"Yes, Brother Seth, if I'm able."
"Well, I hope you are." He arose and looked at the sky. "Looks as if wemight have some falling weather. They say it's been moisting quite a bitup Cedar way. Well,--good night, all!"
When he was gone the matter of his visit was not referred to. With someconstraint they talked a little while of other things. But as soon asthe two men were alone for the night, Follett turned to him, almostfiercely.
"Say, now, what did that old goat-whiskered loon mean by his hintingsabout Prudence?"
The little man was troubled.
"Well, the fact is, Brigham has meant to marry her."
"You don't mean you'd have let him? Say, I'd hate to feel sorry forholding off on you like I have!"
"No, no, don't think that of me."
"Well, what were you going to do?"
"I hardly knew."
"You better find out."
"I know it--I did find out, to-day. I know, and it will be all right.Trust me. I lost my faith for a moment just now when I heard BrotherBrigham was coming to-morrow; but I see how it is,--the Lord has wishedto prove me. Now there is all the more reason why I should not flinch.You will see that I shall make it all right to-morrow."
"Well, the time's about up. I've been here over two months now, justbecause you were so kind of helpless. And one of our wagon-trains willbe along here about next Monday. Say, she wouldn't ever have marriedhim, would she?"
"No, she refused at once; she refused to consider it at all."
He was burning again with his fever, and there was something in hiseagerness that seemed to overcome Follett's indignation.
"Well, let it go till to-morrow, then. And you try to get some restnow. That's what I'm going to do."
But the little bent man, flushed though he was, felt cold from the nightair, and, piling more logs on the fire, he drew his chair close in frontof it.
As often as Follett wakened through the night he saw him sitting there,sometimes reading what looked like a little old Bible, sometimesspeaking aloud as if seeking to memorise a passage.
The last Follett remembered to have heard was something he seemed to bereading from the little book,--"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall notwant. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me besidethe still waters."
He fell asleep again with a feeling of pity for the little man.