The Wild Huntress Part 19

It appeals neither to reason nor romance. The one is insulted by the very shallowness of its chicanery, while its rank _plebbishness_ disgusts the other. Even the nomenclature, both of its offices and office-bearers, has a vulgar ring that smacks of ign.o.ble origin. The names "twelves," "seventies," "deacons," "wifedoms," "Smiths" (Hiram and Joseph), Pratt, Snow, Young, Cowdery, and the like--coupled as they are with an affectation and imitation of Scripture phraseology--form a vocabulary burlesquing even the Sacred Book itself, and suggesting by their sounds the true character of the Mormon Church--a very essence of plebeian hypocrisy.

I have used the word "fanatics," but that must be understood in a limited sense. It can only be applied to the "geese"--the ignorant and besotted _canaille_--which the "apostolic" emissaries have collected from all parts of Europe, but chiefly from England, Scotland, and Wales.

The Welsh, as might be expected, furnish a large proportion of these emigrant geese; while, strange as it may sound, there is but one Irish goose in the whole Mormon flock! There are but few of these "birds" of native American breed. The general intelligence, supplied by a proper school system, prevents much proselytism in that quarter; but it does not hinder the acute Yankee from playing the part of the fox: for in reality this is his _role_ in the social system of Mormondom. The President or "High Priest and Prophet" himself, the Twelves and Seventies, the elders, deacons, and other dignitaries, are all, or nearly all, of true Yankee growth; and to call these "fanatics" would be a misapplication of the word. Term them conspirators, charlatans, hypocrites, and impostors, if you will, but not fanatics. The Mormon fox is no fanatic: he is a _professor_ in the most emphatic sense of the word, but not a _believer_. His profession is absolute chicanery--he has neither faith, dogma, nor doctrine.

There are writers who have defended these _forbans_ of religion; and some who have even spoken well of their system. Captain Stansbury, the explorer, has a good opinion of them. The captain is at best but a superficial observer; and, unfortunately for his judgment, received most courteous treatment at their hands. It is not human nature "to speak ill of the bridge that has carried one over"; and Captain Stansbury has obeyed the common impulse. In the earlier times of the Mormon Church, there were champions of the Stansbury school to defend its members against the charge of _polygamy_. In those days, the Saints themselves attempted a sort of denial of it. The subject was then too rank to come forth as a revelation. But a truth of this awkward kind could not long remain untold; and it became necessary to mask it under the more moderate t.i.tle of a _spiritual-wifedom_. It required an acute metaphysician to comprehend this spiritual relations.h.i.+p; and the moralist was puzzled to understand its sanct.i.ty. During that period, while the Saints dwelt within the pale of the Gentiles' country this cloak was kept on; but after their "exodus" to the Salt Lake settlements, the flimsy garment was thrown off--being found too inconvenient to be worn any longer. There the motive for concealment was removed, and the apology of a _spiritual-wifedom_ ceased to exist.

It came out in its carnal and sensual shape. Polygamy was boldly preached and proclaimed, as it had ever been practised, in its most hideous shape; and the defenders of Mormon purity, thus betrayed by their pet proteges, dropped their broken lances to the ground. The "inst.i.tution" is even more odious under Mormon than Mohammed. There is no redeeming point--not even the "romance of the harem"--for the _zenana_ of a Latter-day Saint is a type of the most vulgar materialism, where even the favourite sultana is not exempted from the hard work-a-day duties of a slave.

Polygamy? No! the word has too limited a signification. To characterise the condition of a Mormon wife, we must resort to the phraseology of the _bagnio_.

_In company of a Mormon had Lilian gone away_! No wonder that my heart was on fire--wildly, madly on fire. I rose from my seat, and rushed forth for my horse. The storm still raged apace. Clouds and rolling thunder, lightning and rain--rain such as that which ushered in the Deluge! The storm! What cared I for its fury? Rain antediluvian would not have stayed me in doors--not if it had threatened the drowning of the world!

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

ANOTHER DUEL DETERMINED ON.

Into my saddle--off out of the clearing--away through the dripping forest--on through the sweltering swamp, I hurried. Up the creek was my route--my destination, the dwelling of the hunter, Wingrove. Surely, in such weather, I should find him at home?

It was natural I should seek the young backwoodsman. In such an emergency, I might count with certainty on having his advice and a.s.sistance. True, I antic.i.p.ated no great benefit from either: for what could either avail me? The young man was helpless as myself; and had similarly suffered. This would secure me his sympathy; but what more could he give?

After all, I did not reckon it as nothing. The condolence of a friend or fellow-sufferer may soothe, though it cannot cure; and for such a solace the heart intuitively seeks. Confidence and sympathy are consolatory virtues--even penance has its purpose. I longed, therefore, for a friend--one to whom I could confide my secret, and unbosom my sorrow; and I sought that friend in the young backwoodsman. I had a claim upon him: he had made me the confidant of _his_ care--the recipient of his heart confessed. Little dreamed I at the time, I should so soon be calling upon him for a reciprocity of the kindness.

Fortune so far favoured me--I found him at home. My arrival scarcely roused him from a dejection that, I could perceive, was habitual to him.

I knew its cause; and could see that he was struggling against it--lest it should hinder him from the fulfilment of his duties as a host. It did not. There was something truly n.o.ble in this conquest of courtesy over the heart heavily laden--charged and engrossed with selfish care.

Not without admiration, did I observe the conflict. I hesitated not to confide my secret to such a man: I felt convinced that under the buckskin coat beat the heart of a gentleman. I told him the whole story of my love--beginning with the hour in which I had left him.

The tale aroused him from his apathy--more especially the episode, which related to my first meeting with Lilian, and the encounter that followed. As a hunter, this last would have secured his attention; but it was not altogether that.

The scene touched a chord in unison with his own memories; for by some such incident had he first won the favour of Marian. As I approached the _finale_ of the duel scene--that point where the stranger had appeared upon the stage--I could perceive the interest of my listener culminating to a pitch of excitement; and, before I had p.r.o.nounced ten words in description of the clerical visitor, the young hunter sprang to his feet, exclaiming as he did so--"Josh Stebbins!"

"Yes; it was he--I know it myself."

I continued the narrative; but I saw I was no longer listened to with attention. Wingrove was on his feet, and pacing the floor with nervous irregular strides. Every now and then, I saw him glance towards his rifle--that rested above the fireplace; while the angry flash of his eyes betokened that he was meditating some serious design. As soon as I had described the winding up of the duel, and what followed--including my departure from Swampville--I was again interrupted by the young hunter--this time not by his speech but by an action equally significant. Hastily approaching the fireplace, he lifted his rifle from the cleets; and, dropping the piece upon its b.u.t.t, commenced loading it!

It was not the movement itself, so much as the time and manner, that arrested my attention; and these declared the object of the act.

Neither for squirrel nor c.o.o.n--deer, bear, nor panther--was that rifle being loaded!

"Where are you going?" I inquired, seeing that he had taken down his c.o.o.n-skin cap, and slung on his pouch and powder-horn. "Only a bit down the crik. You'll excuse me, stranger, for leavin' o' ye; but I'll be back in the twinklin' o' an eye. Thar's a bit o' dinner for ye, if you can eat cold deer-meat; an' you'll find somethin' in the old bottle thar. I won't be gone more'n a hour. I reckon I won't."

The emphasis expressed a certain indecision, which I observed without being able to interpret. I had my conjectures however.

"Can I not go with you?" I asked in hopes of drawing him to declare his design. "The weather has cleared up; and I should prefer riding out, to staying here alone. If it is not some business of a private nature--"

"Thar's nothin' particularly private about it, stranger; but it's a bizness I don't want you to be mixed up in. I guess ye've got yur own troubles now; 'ithout takin' share o' myen."

"If it is not rude, may I ask the business on which you're going?"

"Welcome to know it, stranger. I'm a-goin' _to kill Josh Stebbins_!"

"Kill Josh Stebbins?"

"Eyther that, or he shall kill me."

"Oh! nonsense!" I exclaimed, surprised less at the intention--which I had already half divined--than at the cool determined tone in which it was declared.

"I've said it, stranger! I've sworn it over an' over, an' it sh.e.l.l be done. 'Taint no new notion I've tuk. I'd detarmined on makin' him fight long ago: for I'd an old score to settle wi' him, afore that 'un you know o'; but I niver ked got the skunk to stan' up. He allers tuk care to keep out o' my way. Now I've made up my mind he don't dodge me any longer; an', by the Etarnal! if that black-hearted snake's to be foun' in the settlement--"

"He is not to be found in the settlement."

"Not to be foun' in the settlement!" echoed the hunter, in a tone that betrayed both surprise and vexation--"not to be foun' in the settlement?

Surely you ain't in earnest, stranger? You seed him the day afore yesterday!"

"True--but I have reason to think he is gone."

"G.o.d forbid! But you ain't sure o' it? What makes you think he air gone?"

"Too sure of it--it was that knowledge that brought me in such haste to your cabin."

I detailed the events of the morning, which Wingrove had not yet heard; my brief interview with the Indian maiden--her figurative prophecy that had proved but two truthful. I described the deserted dwelling; and at last read to him the letter of Lilian--read it from beginning to end.

He listened with attention, though chafing at the delay. Once or twice only did he interrupt me, with the simple expression--"Poor little Lil!"

"Poor little Lil!" repeated he when I had finished. "She too gone wi'

him!--just as Marian went six months ago!

"No--no!" he exclaimed correcting himself, in a voice that proclaimed the agony of his thoughts. "No! it war different--altogether different: _Marian went willin'ly_."

"How know you that?" I said, with a half-conceived hope of consoling him.

"Know it? O stranger! I'm sure o' it; Su-wa-nee sayed so."

"That signifies nothing. It is not the truer of her having said so. A jealous and spiteful rival. Perhaps the very contrary is the truth?

Perhaps Marian was forced to marry this, man? Her father may have influenced her: and it is not at all unlikely, since he appears to be himself under some singular influence--as if in dread of his saintly son-in-law. I noticed some circ.u.mstances that would lead one to this conclusion."

"Thank ye, stranger, for them words!" cried the young hunter, rus.h.i.+ng forward; and grasping me eagerly by the hand. "It's the first bit o'

comfort I've had since Marian war tuk away! I've heerd myself that Holt war afeerd o' Stebbins; an' maybe that snake in the gra.s.s had a coil about him somehow. I confess ye, it often puzzled me, Marian's takin'

it so to heart, an' all about a bit o' a kiss--which I wudn't a tuk, if the Indian hadn't poked her lips clost up to myen. Lord o' mercy! I'd gie all I've got in the world, to think it war true as you've sayed."

"I have very little doubt of its being true. I have now seen your rival; and I think it altogether improbable she would, of her own free will, have preferred him to you."

"Thank ye, stranger! it's kind in you to say so. She's now married an'

gone: but if I thort thar had been _force_ used, I'd 'a done long ago _what I mean to do now_."

"What is that?" I asked, struck by the emphatic energy with which the last words were spoken. "Foller _him_, if it be to the furrest eend o'

the world! Yes, stranger! I mean it. I'll go arter him, an' track him out. I'll find him in the bottom o' a Californey gold mine, or wherever he may try to hide hisself; an', by the etarnal! I'll wipe out the score--both the old un and the new un--in the skunk's blood, or I'll never set fut agin in the state o' Tennessee. I've made up my mind to it."

"You are determined to follow him?"