The Telegraph soon became the leading journal in Utah, and in a little while we were surrounded by every comfort and luxury which at that time could be procured in Salt Lake City. No family in the Territory was better provided for than was ours, not excepting Brigham Young’s. I had always believed that if my husband were left alone, untrammelled by the Church, to make his own way, he would do so successfully. In this I was not mistaken. We now owned a fine dwelling-house, a valuable city lot and house, where the paper was printed, and also another very desirable lot, near to Brigham Young’s residence. This last lot was my own; it was very beautifully situated, and we expended on it upwards of three thousand dollars. Everything that my husband undertook at that time seemed to prosper—not excepting his love affairs.
Just then a great deal was whispered privately about certain murders which had been committed, all knowledge of which was strenuously denied by the authorities. When any case was so notorious that it could not possibly be altogether hushed up, we were told that the murdered persons were dangerous people, and had been killed in self-defence by those whom they in the first instance had attacked.
My husband, like hundreds of others, was never in the confidence of the Church authorities in these matters. He believed firmly in the divine mission of Joseph Smith, and shut his eyes to the actions of Brigham Young, thinking that he alone would be responsible to the Lord for his misdeeds. When I drew his attention to the inconsistency of Brigham’s conduct, as on more than one occasion I did, he said we had enough to do to look at home and see that we ourselves did what was right. This, of course, was true; but I thought, nevertheless, that a little more consistency on Brigham’s part would not be amiss.
My talkative friend called one day to speak of a very serious subject.
“I have come, Sister Stenhouse,” she said, “to talk to you about a matter of great importance, but I don’t want to offend you, and you must promise beforehand to forgive me.”
I readily promised, and she added: “I thought I should find you very unhappy, Sister Stenhouse, about poor dear Carrie Grant, and I think if you are so you deserve it, but I don’t like you to be miserable, and so I came to comfort you.”
“But, Sister Ann,” I said, “I don’t want to be comforted in the way you seem to mean. I have been very sad indeed at losing Carrie; but you know I did everything I could for her, poor girl, and I have nothing to blame myself for.”
“Nothing to blame yourself for?” she exclaimed. “Why, Sister Stenhouse, you have everything to blame yourself for. If poor Carrie has less glory, it is all your fault.”
“How so?” I said.
“Why,” she answered, “if you had not held back and expressed your dislike, Carrie would have married your husband, and would most likely have been alive now. She would have had her family, and would have added to your husband’s glory; while now, although she is your husband’s wife, she has no children, and, of course, must have less glory in the Kingdom.”