“‘Yes, sir,’ she said, and, oh, so demurely. Why, Sister Stenhouse, I began to think that I had actually been deceived, and that while I had innocently supposed that I had found out the girl myself, it was the very one upon whom my husband had had his eye for a long while past. I watched them, however, very narrowly, for I was determined that if my husband had really taken a fancy for the girl he should never have her.”
“Why, that would have facilitated matters, would it not?” I said.
“Do you think,” she replied, “that I would have allowed them to marry if they loved each other? No, indeed! The Saints marry from principle and not from love, as Brother Brigham has often told us. I hope you believe me, dear, when I say that I am not at all a jealous woman, but if my husband dared to fall in love with a girl and to hide it from me, I could not stand it I am sure. No! principle is the only thing—there can be no love in Polygamy. If a man loved his wife, do you think he could have the heart to pain her by taking another? On the other hand, it is because of the love which still remains in their hearts, and which they weary themselves to crush out, that so many of the first wives are miserable. But I was going to tell you about Alice. I was mistaken in thinking that my husband had been paying her any attentions. It appeared that he was acquainted with her father and mother, and that at their house he had frequently seen the child Alice, but never supposed she was the Miss Maynard of whom I had spoken. But now they had come together at last he took to her kindly and she to him, and really I sometimes almost thought they wished to ignore me altogether.
“I did not let them waste much time fussing with one another, but they got on very rapidly, nevertheless; and before I had time to arrange matters properly, my husband told me that to please me he was going to marry Alice. Only fancy me being pleased at him marrying Alice! Why, it wasn’t to please myself that I introduced the child to him, but simply because, if he must have another wife, it was certainly best for me to choose one whom I could manage. However, they were married not long after, and really I think I never was more disgusted in my life than I was on that occasion. I was not jealous, but I do think he might have paid her a little less attention. In fact I quite regretted, when it was too late, that I had ever brought them together.
“The Mormon men always do make themselves silly over their new wives, and I did not expect my husband to be an exception to the rule; but I was perfectly astonished at the change that took place in Alice. Instead of the quiet, modest girl she used to be, she put on all sorts of airs, and treated me as if I were of not the slightest consequence. I couldn’t stand that, and I resolved, if it were only to take the pride out of her, I would get my husband to marry another wife still. He wouldn’t object, I knew, for he takes life very easily, and he has a great respect for my opinion. Besides which, he is quite well enough off to support three wives; and as a matter of duty, if nothing else, he ought to do so. That would soon bring Miss Alice to a proper state of mind, and she needed something of the sort; for, do you know, she had actually made that silly husband of mine think that she ought to be treated with the same consideration as myself.”
“Well, but,” I said, “if the principle of polygamy is of God, it is only just that all the wives should be treated alike. If my husband were to marry another woman, much as it would pain me, I should treat her as an equal.”
“Then,” she replied, “if you do so you will find that the first wives will have nothing to do with you. You will find, when you come to be better acquainted with the people here, that the first wives do not waste much love over the polygamic wives; and, of course, as a rule, the polygamic wives detest the first wives. Then the plural wives get together and talk all manner of evil about the first wives, who do pretty much the same in respect to them. It is only natural that they should do so.
“But I was going to tell you,” she continued, “how I selected the third wife. There was an emigrant-train expected in every day; and you know, when the emigrants arrive, all those women who want wives for their husbands, and all those men who want to choose for themselves, go down to the camping-ground, and if they see a girl who takes their fancy they ask her if she has got a place to go to, and if she has not they offer to receive her themselves. There are hundreds of young girls who arrive here without any one to look after them, and who are only too glad to accept a home for the winter. Now this was exactly what I did. I went down to the camp and looked round for myself, and at last my eyes rested upon a young woman of about thirty or thirty-five years of age, who I thought would be a more suitable wife for my husband than that giggling chit that I chose for him at first. I decided at once that she would do, so I went up to her and asked her if she had any friends. She said she had a brother living in the City; but when I explained to her how we were situated, and said that I should like her to come and stay with us till she could look round a little for herself, she agreed at once. Now—I thought—Miss Alice, we shall see whether you are going to have things all your own way any longer!
“I told her, however, as well as my husband, that I had brought home a sister to stay with us a while, and they received her very kindly, and she soon made herself very useful and agreeable to us all. The bishop came and talked to my husband, and he made no difficulty at all in acceding to my wishes, and before long he made our visitor wife number three; and Alice, as a matter of course, lost a good deal of her influence over him. For my own part, I am much more comfortable. The two plural wives do nearly all the work, and I have little else to do than superintend the household and enjoy myself. My husband is one of those quiet sort of men who never interfere with domestic affairs, and I have matters pretty much my own way now. The only thing that annoys me is his fondness for Alice, who makes herself appear most amiable to him, deceitful thing! I can’t break him of that, but I often tell him that he will find her out some day. He tells me that he looks upon her as a child, and feels like a father towards her; no woman, he says, can ever have his love but me. That sounds all very well; but as to believing it, that is quite another thing—I keep my eye on them, and watch them well.”
“But,” I said, “it appears to me that it would have been far better if you had never given him another wife at all, you would have been saved from annoyance, and the privacy of your home would not have been disturbed. I am the more surprised, as your husband did not himself desire it.”