It was then that some one present thought of sending for me, and I arrived not long after the physician had gone. I was the only person, outside the family, beside the friend whom I have mentioned, who knew of anything that had taken place—so careful were they that the matter should not get abroad; and I should certainly not have been summoned had it not been for the close intimacy which existed between Mary and myself, which made us more like sisters than friends. The reader must not, however, suppose that in relating this I am even now betraying a trust; for my friends in Utah know as well as I do that so many unhappy wives have in their desperation been driven to attempt self-destruction, that having no clue in the name, which solely out of love for my poor friend, I have all through this narrative given her, they will not know who to fix upon as the person to whom I allude.[3] There is, however, one still living—he will know—let his own conscience be his accuser.
In about half an hour’s time, Mary began to recognize those who were around her, but she did not seem disposed to speak. She opened her eyes and looked dreamily at me for a long time, but the slight pressure of my hand was her only recognition of my presence. I bent down over her and whispered a few assuring words in her ear, and for a moment a faint, weary smile lighted up her thin, pale face. It was not like the sweet smiles of the by-gone days which used to suffuse her whole countenance with sunshine—it was but the very ghost of a smile. Presently she sank into a gentle slumber; but I still sat by her on the bed, holding her hand in mine, and I remained there for two or three hours. Then, after seeing that everything was at hand which she could possibly want if she awoke, and assured by Ellen that she would not leave her until she was able to sit up, I left for my own home.
At the bottom of the stairs, in the hall-way, I was confronted by Elder Shrewsbury himself. This surprised me, as hitherto he had most sedulously avoided coming in contact with me. He gave me one searching glance, as if to read my thoughts, and then said: “Sister Stenhouse, this is a most unhappy affair, but say nothing about it—no good can come of talking of such matters.”
I assured him that for Mary’s sake—not for his—I would not speak of what had transpired; but when he held out his hand for me to shake, I affected not to see it, but wished him good-morning, and left the house.
For some time she said nothing to me about the sad event which had so greatly troubled us, and when at length she hesitatingly alluded to it, I was much relieved to find that the taking of the deadly drug was on her part wholly accidental. It was as I from the first suspected—for I knew and loved my dear friend too well to wrong her even by a thought. Cruelly as she had suffered, wretched and miserable as she was, bitterly as she felt, the instincts of her heart were too true and her nature too noble to allow of her seeking oblivion from her troubles in voluntary and premeditated death, as I have known was the case with many wretched Mormon wives. She had only thought to take an opiate to soothe the feverish excitement which had almost bereft her of reason, and, in the weak and enfeebled condition in which she was, the draught had been too powerful for her. Guiltless as she was, she dreaded that others might impute wrong motives to her in what she had done; and even to me she spoke of her sickness painfully and with hesitation.
After this, I called day after day upon my poor friend, until she was sufficiently recovered to walk about and even to get out of doors a little. The story of the unhappy attempt which she was supposed to have made upon her life, by some means, however, got rumoured abroad, and she heard of it. She said nothing at the time, but I believe it preyed upon her mind. Weak and failing in health, as she long had been, the shock which her system had received was too much for her, and it was evident to every one who saw her that her earthly trials would soon be ended. She sank gradually, and life ebbed from her gently and without pain. A few days before she died, she sent for me, and I spent several hours with her. I might say that they were happy hours; for the near prospect of death seemed to have dispelled all those gloomy fears of the future life which had for so many years troubled her soul; and she now looked forward with peaceful resignation to her approaching change. Death came at last to her when she was sleeping, and she passed away tranquilly and without a sigh. I almost rejoiced when I heard that at last her weary journey was over, and she was at rest. I loved her with the fondest affection, and shall never think of her without bitter feelings towards that unholy system which brought her to an untimely grave.