•Buah.B.M 
 
 FROM 
 
 WITHIN ONE 
 HEART 
 
 Literature Department of the Woman's Bocurd 
 of Home Missions of the Presbyterian Church, 
 One Hundred and Fifty-six Fifth Ave., NewYork 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2017 with funding from 
 Columbia University Libraries 
 
 https://archive.org/details/fromwithinoneheaOObush 
 
From Within One Heart 
 
 ‘•Do I tiud my work iuterestiug? Do 1 
 have experiences ? Will 1 tell you one ? ' 
 
 I often wonder If you who know nothing 
 personally of mission work in Utah ever 
 dream, as you sit buried in the leaves of 
 some fashionable novel, that we who are on 
 the field read stories far more thrilling, since 
 they are written on hearts — not paper: hear 
 tales from lips that quiver in the telling. 
 You giris who love to become “deeply inter- 
 ested,” “iost to the worid” in popuiar fiction, 
 did you look for it, could find in real life 
 tragedies that would thrill and fascinate as 
 can never printed page of the most gifted 
 author. I try to forget them. It hurts so to 
 bear in your own heart these deep wounds 
 of others ; but some I cannot forget. One in 
 particular comes to me now, which I think 
 you wiil consider an “experience.” 
 
 You know we do things in a very primitive 
 way out there in our mission work. I was 
 the only teacher at our station, and had to 
 serve as janitor as vveil in the little log 
 house in which we held our school. As 1 
 closed the door on my labor one evening, 
 after what had seemed to me a particularly 
 trying and unprofitable day, one of my little 
 scholars slipped her hand into mine, begging 
 me to come with her — her mother was very 
 sick and had asked for me. I went gladly — 
 it seemed so good to be wanted. We make 
 the most of these openings, for it is often 
 as hard to get into houses in Utah as it is in 
 China. Moilie, a winsome little maiden of 
 perhaps eight summers, trudged along beside 
 me, her brown eyes overflowing with tears 
 
 3 
 
as she told me how sick poor mother was, 
 how long she had been in bed, how thin her 
 poor hands were, and all the items of ill- 
 ness, which had evidently been closely ob- 
 served by this small woman. 
 
 When we reached the little dingy home in 
 
 the outskirts of AI I was met at the door 
 
 by an old woman, bent with years and very 
 feeble, who pointed me on to a room in the 
 rear with a sad shake of her head. “What 
 is the matter ? “ 1 asked. ‘ She is d^ in’ — yes, 
 dyin’.’’ “Has she been ill long?” “I don’t 
 call it ill, ma’am, not rightly ill ; she’s just 
 a dyin’ of a broken heart and plural mar- 
 riage,” and with another sad shake of the 
 head the poor woman hobbled away, while I 
 stepped into the other room. There, on a 
 wretched bed, lay a poor, sick creature, whose 
 black eyes gazed out at me from her pallid 
 face with the piteous look of some wounded 
 animal. Wistful, sad, heartbroken, their own- 
 er lay dying indeed, as the old woman had 
 said, of a broken heart and plural marriage. 
 Let me tell you the story I learned from the 
 poor lips, only a few words at a time, gasped 
 out as she found breath. I can make it 
 plainer to you than it was to me then, for 
 later I learned much from the old woman. 
 
 “And so you have come, ma’am ; Mollie 
 said you would. You would have been glad 
 to come before? Yes, ma’am ; Mollie said 
 
 that, too, but but I couldn’t see you 
 
 then. I didn’t wan’t you,- ma’am, until I 
 knew the end had come — the end of every- 
 thing for me. Not yet, you hope? Oh, yes, 
 ma’am; not long now to the end. But don’t 
 think I’m grievin’, ma’am — only jest for the 
 little Mollie — I’d be glad to go but for the 
 little one; and perhaps if you’ll listen to me, 
 ma’am, it’ll be best for her, too. Let me 
 
 4 
 
tell you what has been In my heart aud kept 
 there all these years — for I couldn’t tell It 
 before. Perhap.s I may tell you ; It takes me 
 so long, but oh! be patient — let me tell at 
 last my story and ease my heart. 
 
 “Don’t think, ma’am, I was always like 
 this. Years ago, ages ago. It seems, I was a 
 red-cheeked English lassie, as pure in thought 
 as you are yourself, ma’am ; and. Indeed, I 
 tried to be good. Mother always said I was 
 her comfort. Thank God that He took her 
 before she saw me ■ come to this ; that, at 
 least, I can be thankful for — little else. Oh, 
 ma’am, you ought to thank God every day 
 of your life that your religion can never 
 make the shameful thing of you that I am. 
 That Is my load. I am dyln’, ma’am. Only 
 a few days more and I shall be out of a 
 world where for years I have crept along, 
 hidin’ my face lest some who looked might 
 see my shame. For you know, ma’am. It could 
 never seem like marriage to me. It will 
 soon be over now. What a beautiful place 
 Heaven must be — you know, ma’am, they 
 don’t marry there. 
 
 “Did I tell you that I was once young and 
 pure and fresh as yourself? Just mother 
 and I In dear old England. We were so 
 poor! Father was gone. And then, one 
 day, a man came from far away and told us 
 of America — how easy It was to live there — 
 homes for everybody, plenty to eat and wear, 
 people so kind that they had sent him after 
 all the poor and discouraged; they had 
 homes jest waitin’ for them ; they wanted 
 women especially, as they did not have many 
 to do the work In the new country? It 
 seemed so good! Mother and I had naught 
 to keep us; others besides us were going — 
 men and women, too, my own aunt and her 
 
 5 
 
husband — so we came away. I can see it all 
 now ; the neighbors coming to help us o£E 
 with little gifts and hearty good-byes. The 
 dear old home — poor, ma’am, but honest, not 
 stained; the old mooley cow in the sweet 
 meadow grass, browsing along home that 
 last night, her tinkling bell seeming, In the 
 dewy twilight, to say to me, ‘Good bye ! good- 
 bye!’ and it was good-bye, had I only known 
 It; good-bye to all that made life dear — 
 youth, happiness, honor. 
 
 “Mother died on the way over — it was so 
 hard then — such an awful grief that I knew 
 nothing worse could ever be. Yet In six 
 months I rejoiced that she had left me. 
 
 “How big and rich your country looked to 
 me, little lass that 1 was, barelv sixte^'n, 
 ma’am ! First we reached New York, then 
 traveled by train for days and days and days. 
 How glad I was when at last they said we 
 were nearly home! Did they call It home? 
 They ought to have said ‘hell.’ 
 
 “Aunt and I were soon busy settling down 
 In the new place, which was a little farm out 
 from Salt Lake City. Uncle went often to 
 the city, while aunt and I kept pretty close 
 at home. Sometimes an elder came to teach 
 us our new faith — not a hard one to believe, 
 ma’am, for you see we thought If their relig- 
 ion had taught them to send way off for us, 
 and bring us to that beautiful country and 
 give us such a start in life. It must be from 
 God. 
 
 “The first cloud was when uncle began to 
 change so — stayed away so much. But he 
 said the new faith made him give much of 
 his time to other things; so we managed 
 along without him. But then he grew so 
 surly; he had always been kind, and poor 
 aunt hardly knew how to bear It. Poor 
 
 6 
 
soul ! there was more to come. Uncle stayed 
 away more and more. When he came he 
 often brought an elder with him, who talked 
 long with him after we had gone to bed — an 
 ugly old man I thought him — Elder Graves. 
 
 “When the winter was well over and a 
 beautiful spring had come, uncle took me to 
 town one day to a large house where were 
 six elders, among them Elder Graves. I 
 was almost afraid; they seemed so solemn, 
 and I did not know why they wanted me 
 until Elder Graves said that they had had a 
 revelation, that I must be sealed to him — 
 married to him. ‘But,’ I said, ‘I don’t want 
 to marry you ! I don’t like you ! You are 
 too old and I am so young. I’d rather stay 
 with aunt.’ 
 
 “Uncle sided with the elders, gruffiy telling 
 me to stop my nonsense and listen to the 
 revelations of the authorities or It would be 
 worse for me. When aunt Joined her voice 
 and said she was afraid for me longer to say 
 no, I gave up. Why, ma’am, I was only a 
 child. I remember well that aunt and I 
 had to let down my dresses that very spring, 
 but In a week from that time I was taken 
 to the Endowment House and married to 
 Elder Graves. 
 
 “Well, young hearts soon rebound. I was 
 a child ; he was kind. He bought me pretty 
 clothes, saying such a color and figure de- 
 served setting off. In a few weeks we 
 started for our home In the country. 
 
 “You have been In Salt Lake, ma’am. You 
 know the little road that winds out by Fort 
 Douglass. It was a pretty road that morn- 
 ing. I can hear now the water rippling 
 through the streets of the city, and Elder 
 Graves said Just such a stream flowed 
 through the meadow of my new home, where 
 
 T 
 
a mooley cow was waiting for me to milk 
 her. 1 remember turning around to look 
 back at the great dome in the distance as we 
 rode away, and the temple which was build- 
 ing near by ; at the long lines of trees in the 
 city ; at the sweet fields around us along 
 the little streams, while over all hung the 
 guns of Fort Douglass beyond. It was beau- 
 tiful to me. It had begun to seem very sweet 
 to be going to my own home, a little cottage 
 In the trees, he said. After a ride of many 
 miles he pointed out to me the little houses 
 which nestled at the foot of the blue distant 
 mountains, and among them my home. 
 
 “ ‘Do others live here? other families? Do 
 you rent to them?’ I asked. 
 
 “ ‘Well, not exactly — hum ! You’ve a heap 
 to learn. Sallie, and I’m afraid you’re one to 
 take It hard — most of the new ones do. But 
 you’ll settle down to It after a while. They 
 all do. Now, here we are; Jump down.’ Sev- 
 eral women and children had swarmed about 
 us as we stopped. ‘Now this Is wife Eliza- 
 beth. this is wife Caroline, this wife Mona.’ 
 
 “ ‘But whose wife, elder?’ 
 
 “ ‘Why, mine, Sallie.’ 
 
 “ ‘What do you mean? Am I not your 
 wife?’ 
 
 “ ‘Yes. but so are the rest of them. You 
 see, you hadn’t happened to hear that plural 
 marriage was part of the faith — delivered to 
 our blessed prophet. We all have as many 
 wives as we can take care of.’ 
 
 “ ‘But you can’t have me If you have 
 others; It Isn’t decent I won’t stay; take 
 me back at once. What do you mean?’ 
 
 “Only mocking laughter greeted my cries 
 as he slowly unharnessed the horses. ‘Well, 
 now, Sallie, It’s a long way back — too fur to 
 walk ; all the houses we have passed have 
 
 8 
 
plural wives just like you. There ain’t no 
 help and no way out Have your little fling. 
 You’re prettier than ever when you’re mad. 
 You ain’t well grounded in the faith yet’ 
 
 “ ‘Take me back to my uncle, you wicked 
 man; I won’t stay here.’ 
 
 “ ‘Your uncle, you fool, has sealed three 
 wives since he came, and had a powerful 
 revelation about you, but I got ahead of him. 
 Men learn the new religion quicker than 
 women.’ 
 
 “Oh, ma’am ! think of me — young, help- 
 less, penniless, thousands of miles from home 
 — none such as you to call on — knowing al- 
 ready that a little one would some day share 
 my shame.” 
 
 Here, overcome by grief and tears, the 
 poor soul sank back exhausted. Only the 
 sweet words of “Safe in the Arms of Jesus” 
 could calm her distress, and when she slept I 
 slipped away, promising to return and spend 
 the night. 
 
 When I came again to the little home she 
 was still asleep, but the old woman was glad 
 to join my vigil, and from her I learned 
 much. She was the aunt of whom the poor 
 girl had told me, with troubles enough of her 
 own to bear. She had found, not long after 
 her niece had left her, that her husband had 
 other and younger wives, and had left him — 
 fortunately having enough to buy a poor 
 little home. Being old and feeble, she had 
 not -herself been troubled with revelations or 
 elders, but had lived out her hard life, curs- 
 ing the plural marriage which had caused 
 all her trouble. 
 
 At the time when our National Govern- 
 ment passed the law prohibiting polygamy 
 many besides her niece were turned out of 
 their homes in seeming obedience to the new 
 
 9 
 
law. Footsore, and even then ill of the 
 malady which was soon to conquer her, the 
 niece had arrived at her humble door with a 
 little child — had never seemed until lately to 
 be just right in her head — had talked much 
 of a cruel man who had abused her and 
 laughed at her grief — had said that she had 
 run away, and he hated her so that he would 
 not come after her, now that she was broken 
 down and miserable. They had lived as best 
 they could with the little work they could 
 get to help them. 
 
 The invalid awakened after midnight and 
 smiled sadly at me. “Oh, ma’am, here yet? 
 I didn’t tell you all, ma’am. I can’t go till I 
 do. Ob. ma’am, I did Jest as he said I 
 would. I settled down, but it was only that 
 I had no strength to go on. The heart within 
 me fought just as hard as ever. I was put 
 to work by wife Caroline ; she was deep in 
 the faith, and thought that she and all of us 
 were ouly fulfilling our destinies when we 
 were sealed to Elder Graves. You can 
 imagine that it was hard to live there, where 
 every one quarreled so — bickerings all the 
 time among the wives as well as the children. 
 You know, ma’am, it couldn’t be otherwise. 
 While woman has woman’s heart, to share 
 her husband with others is to nurse jealousy 
 and hatred. That never hurt me. I couldn’t 
 love the brute who had ruined me, body and 
 soul, and who, because I was younger, and 
 perhaps prettier than the old wives, seemed 
 to delight in tormenting them through me — 
 and I had to pay for it. They’ll tell you that 
 plural wives live in harmony and peace, but, 
 ma’am, how could they? Well, by and by, 
 I became outwardly like Caroline and Eliza- 
 beth and Mona. Maybe, when one is trained 
 to the faith from childhood, it becomes easier. 
 
 10 
 
But it never grew easy for me ; and when my 
 first baby came, oh, the shame of it! the 
 bitter shame! I was glad when it died; it 
 was a girl, ma’am, and 1 was glad to put it 
 where it could never know what I knew — 
 feel what I felt. I think Elder Graves tried 
 to be kind at first, but I hated him so that I 
 finally wore out his patience. I faded so, too, 
 all my pretty color gone. Blows and curses 
 were added to my lot. You see, ma’am, it 
 was almost more than a woman’s heart could 
 bear, and I wore away so. 
 
 “And now, oh, ma’am ! I come to the end 
 of my story. I lie here thinking of my girl 
 life in England, and I look at little Mollie. 
 Oh, ma’am, will you save her for me? Don’t 
 let her know what I am ! Don’t let her be 
 what I have been! You hardly dare promise? 
 You are not yourself able? Oh, ma’am, you 
 can, you must! I can’t die and leave her to 
 such a life as mine. I couldn’t rest In my 
 grave if I knew she was what I had been. 
 Oh, ma’am, now that you know, you must 
 say yes. There are so many rich in your 
 great country, some one will take her. Your 
 song says ‘the land of the free’ — but she 
 can’t be free here ; I wasn’t free, I was the 
 worst sort of a slave; there are none lower 
 than I. Don’t let Mollie be like me! Save 
 her from plural marriage.” 
 
 What could I say. Only my promise could 
 quiet the poor soul, already showing signs of 
 the end for which she longed. She lingered 
 for several days. When I could I was with 
 her, and her eyes followed me always — her 
 lips whispered until the last, “Remember 
 Mollie.” She smiled sweetly when the verses 
 and songs she loved lulled her to sleep, and 
 always said, “Mollie, too, she will be there. 
 You’ll save her.” Sometimes the thought of 
 
 11 
 
others would disturb her peace. “So many 
 little girls, but one Is safe. You promised — 
 tell others.” After one very restless night, 
 when the gray dawn was slipping down the 
 mountalus, she passed away, and It came 
 about that her last words were, “Tell others." 
 Perhaps He meant It to be thus. So when I 
 have a chance, as now, to tell this heart 
 story, I gladly do so, handing on to others 
 the legacy which I had from those dying 
 lips — 
 
 “Mollle Is safe — but there are others.” 
 
 P. M. Bush 
 
 Price— 2 cents each; |l.S0per hundred 
 No. 17T-8th Ed.— I, 1907.