But they only see a very plain meeting-room, filled with the average hard-featured men and women of this Mormon city, dressed in their best, which means for the women gowns that would be a horror to a French dressmaker, and for the men, clothes that would be a nightmare to a Broadway tailor--and children--lots of them--most of them white-headed, but happy. The stage, moreover, is filled with them, dressed in the best their mothers can put upon them, chiefly bright calicoes and ginghams; some of them looking quite pretty in these, for youth is nearly always beautiful, and Mormon tots are generally as happy as other children.

Over their heads hangs a piece of white calico in festoons, bearing this peculiar motto: "UTAH'S BEST CROP IS CHILDREN."

Miss Travenion has just completed her survey, when the man she is looking for comes from a side door on to the platform, and makes the stereotyped Mormon address for such occasions, but says: "There is a better talker coming after me. I refer to the bishop of this ward, the Counsellor of our President, Bishop R. H. Tranyon, who, after the children have sung a hymn, will hold forth on what is the duty of the up-growing generation of this Sect and people, in order to become true Mormons, in the faith of Joseph Smith and Hyrum, his brother."

But all the time Kruger is speaking his eyes rove around the a.s.sembly, as if seeking some one, and finally, lighting upon the graceful form of Erma, he appears satisfied, and triumph and joy coming into his voice, his audience think it is the glory of Zion inspiring him, and applaud him as he sits down; a Mormon girl, just in front of Miss Travenion, remarking, "Bishop Kruger seems to have his talking-coat on this evening!"

After that there is music from a melodeon, and the children sing the Mormon song,

"I want to be a Mormon, And with the Mormons stand,"

and give it with as much fervor, Erma cannot help noticing, as the Sunday-schools in the East sing the beautiful hymn, "I want to be an angel," on which this is an awful parody.

Then stillness falls upon the audience, for the big gun of the evening is coming--the man who stands upon the right hand of the prophet and obtains his inspiration from him; the man who has expounded to them during a number of years the doctrines of their creed, revealed by the Almighty to Joseph Smith, their founder.

A moment after Kruger announces, a peculiar thrill in his voice, "BISHOP TRANYON!"

As he says this, Erma, bending forward to get a better view, clenches her little hands together and thinks to herself, "This is the wretch who is Lawrence's enemy, and would destroy his happiness and mine!"

Then onto the platform comes a figure, wearing his clothes with a grace strange in a Mormon community, and whose broadcloth is finer than the sect is wont to wear, and whose gray eyes are familiar, and whose soft gestures are those she has been longing for--and whose grizzled moustache, now joined to a mighty beard, has caressed her lips. Gazing at him with all her might, something suddenly snaps in the girl's head, for he is speaking, and the incisive, smooth, cynical voice now crying the glory of the Mormon Church, the sanct.i.ty of plural, polygamous marriage--the voice now crying out the glory of what she thinks unutterable indignity and degradation to her s.e.x, is that of--G.o.d help her!--no, she will not believe it, but still does--HER FATHER!

In one awful flash comes to her the thought, "If he is what he is, then what am I?" and merciful insensibility comes with it.

As for Mr. Livingston, he has listened to the preliminary proceedings in a perfunctory, philosophical kind of way, sometimes scoffing inwardly.

Then his mind, as the children sing their hymn, running upon other churches, finally comes to his own; he has got to carelessly looking over the choristers, and trying to select from them youths who he thinks would make good altar-boys in his Episcopal Church.

He is hardly awakened from this when Bishop Tranyon is announced, and looking carelessly at him, thinks, "There's something curiously familiar in the old Mormon--he has a little of the New York club style about him.

Good gracious! that gesture--where have I seen it?" and rubs his gla.s.ses and inspects him more closely. And then, remembering Travenion, the old New York swell, having known him as a boy, and seen him on his visits to New York, Ollie gets excited, for the eyes seem familiar to him, and the voice is the same that he has heard several times in the smoking-rooms of the Unity and Stuyvesant Clubs, though for a moment he cannot reconcile himself to believe what his memory tells him.

But just here, Erma's body falls a dead weight upon him and her head droops on his shoulder.

Looking at her, he sees that she has fainted so quietly that he has not noticed it, and an awful shock coming upon this conventional and orthodox young man, he gasps to himself, "Good Gad, Erma's father!" and is so paralyzed and petrified that he makes no effort to revive the girl, but simply looks on in a horrified kind of wonder as the festival proceeds.

In a daze, he hears the old New York club man play his _role_ of Mormon exhorter and apostle, and do it very well, for he has just brought forward five children of a.s.sorted sizes and s.e.xes, and has proclaimed with sanctimonious voice to the uncouth Saints a.s.sembled about him: "These are my hostages to the State of Deseret; these are my pledges to the Zion of our Lord!" And taking up the smallest of his family--a babe with Erma's eyes--this evangelist continues: "This tot I have named Brigham after our well-loved President, and Joseph for our first Prophet, and Hyrum after his sainted brother, who was murdered with him--unto the glory of our true religion and the d.a.m.nation of our unbelieving enemies." So, holding the little one on his arm he cries, "LET US PRAY!"

And he does pray--so earnestly, so impressively, so tremendously that Oliver, gazing at him with agitated eyes, begins to pray himself, thinking affrightedly: "What shall I do? My G.o.d, I am here with a Mormon's daughter!"

Then he would make an effort to arouse the girl to consciousness, and perhaps cause a scene, but he suddenly thinks, "If I disturb the meeting, they may treat me roughly. These infidels do not believe in Gentile interruptions to their religious ceremonies;" and so sits quietly by the side of the unconscious girl, till Bishop Tranyon, of Salt Lake City, ex-Ralph Travenion, the New York exquisite, dandy and club man, finishes his harangue, and the people crowd about the platform and congratulate him on his great speech, to the glory of G.o.d and Brigham Young, his prophet.

But looking at Bishop Tranyon now, Oliver thinks he sees the cynic scoff of the Manhattan swell, as if, fight it how he will, he can't keep down a sneer at the religion that he preaches.

Just then, heart-breaking consciousness and recollection coming to the girl, she says in a low, faltering voice, placing a feeble though pleading hand upon his arm, "Take me away!"

In the confusion and hilarity of the festival, the melodeon playing loudly and the children singing that well-known Utah Sunday-school hymn,

"Say, Daddy, I'm a Mormon!"

unnoticed by all save Kruger, who knows his arrow has struck its shining mark, Oliver gets Erma out of the hall and to the carriage, which fortunately has returned.

Lifting her in, he cries, in feeble agitation, "The Townsend House!

Quick!" for he fears his charge will faint again in the carriage. But she is beyond fainting now.

She whispers hoa.r.s.ely: "You recognized him also?" then wrings her hands, and gasps, "My G.o.d! my father!" next bursts out: "That was the reason I did not meet him. That is the reason he never wanted me to come West to live with him--among his concubines he calls wives--he, my father, who once called _my_ mother wife!"

Then to Oliver Livingston comes the opportunity of his life--his one supreme moment to win this woman, who is more beautiful in her agony even than in her joy; for the girl has fallen sobbing on his shoulder, and had he but treated her as if he loved her--aye, even pitied her--she would have given unto him grat.i.tude so potent it might have grown to love, and so made her his.

But his puny heart is too small for such magnanimity, and to her tears and her mutterings, "What will the world think of me now?" he replies: "This is awful. This is a terrible thing for you. It will take you a long time to live this down. You had better retire from society for a time. Prayer and repent--"

And so his opportunity forever leaves him. The girl cuts short his last word with a shudder, then draws herself up, and says, a desperate gleam in her eyes: "Don't dare to talk to me as if the sin of my father was my sin. That kind of innuendo I will not permit!" next mutters: "I asked for sympathy and you gave me a sermon!" A moment after, she says, in measured tones, "We are at the hotel. You need not help me down. The touch of the polygamist's daughter might sully you, Mr. Immaculate!"

CHAPTER XI.

"FOR BUSINESS PURPOSES."

Then, unheeding his proffered aid, Erma descends from the carriage, and going into the house, he following her, she turns, and says haughtily: "I wish to see your mother as soon as she comes from the theatre; but, before that, I must see _him_," and mutters, "If it is not too much of a service to me, in my extremity, go back to the meeting and tell my father to come to me at once. It may be the last favor I shall _ever ask_ of you," and strides to her room.

So, he leaves her to go on her errand; but chancing to pa.s.s a barroom, he goes in, a thing which is unusual for him, and, calling for a gla.s.s of brandy, gulps it down, his hands trembling a little.

Thinking the matter over as he drinks, he concludes his mother should be told first, and going to the Salt Lake Theatre, purchases a ticket.

It is fortunately an _entr'acte_, and he very shortly finds Mrs.

Livingston's seat. Walking down the aisle to her, he whispers, "Bring Louise and Ferdie at once. Something terrible has happened!"

Looking at the white face of her offspring, the widow suddenly gasps, "Good Heavens! Erma has eloped with that awful Captain Lawrence, the Vigilante," and grabs helplessly for her wraps.

"No," he says grimly, as he supports her to the door, Ferdie and Louise following them; "but it is almost as bad."

"Tell me," whispers his mother, and seeing that he does not answer, goes on hysterically: "Tell me or I shall faint right here." But he finally gets her to the sidewalk, where the breezy air cools her nervous system, and putting her into the carriage he has brought with him, where, if she so elects, she can faint comfortably, he tells her in a few words what has happened.

Then, unheeding her exclamations of surprise and horror, as likewise those of Louise and Ferdie, he whispers, "Go back to the hotel. I am going to find this Mormon and bring him there," and leaving the carriage to drive back to the Townsend House, starts on foot for the meeting in the Twenty-fifth Ward.

But Salt Lake City blocks are long, and Mr. Livingston's episode at the theatre has taken some time. When he reaches the meeting-house, its windows are dark, the festival has ended, and there is nothing left him but to return to the hotel.

On his way back, however, his mind being on other things than his footsteps, he wanders into one of the streams that flow in this peculiar city where gutters would be in ordinary towns, and it being knee-deep, comes out of it in a very bad humor. This is not decreased by the dust which settles upon his immaculate inexpressibles, and gives him a very sorry appearance.

As he enters the hotel, Louise comes to meet him with a frightened face, and whispers, "Mamma is talking to her in her parlor," then suddenly cries out, "Goodness! Have you been fighting with her father?"

At which he snaps at her, "Go to bed, you little idiot," and pushing past her, enters his mother's sitting-room in by no means the frame of mind to properly meet, even for his own interest, the situation before him.

The room is but slightly illuminated,--the Townsend House gas, manufactured on the premises, being only strong in odor.

By it he can see Miss Travenion standing near the centre of the apartment, so white she would seem a statue, were it not for the dazzling brilliancy of her eyes, that appear to have burnt up the tears that were in them, and a slight nervous twitching of the hands, such as comes to us when hope is no more.

Mrs. Livingston, seated on a sofa, is speaking in a tremulous sort of way, for the girl's manner just at this time frightens her.