The $30,000 Bequest, and Other Stories Page 22

  THE CALIFORNIAN'S TALE

  Thirty-five years ago I was out prospecting on the Stanislaus, trampingall day long with pick and pan and horn, and washing a hatful of dirthere and there, always expecting to make a rich strike, and never doingit. It was a lovely region, woodsy, balmy, delicious, and had once beenpopulous, long years before, but now the people had vanished and thecharming paradise was a solitude. They went away when the surfacediggings gave out. In one place, where a busy little city with banksand newspapers and fire companies and a mayor and aldermen had been, wasnothing but a wide expanse of emerald turf, with not even the faintestsign that human life had ever been present there. This was down towardTuttletown. In the country neighborhood thereabouts, along the dustyroads, one found at intervals the prettiest little cottage homes, snugand cozy, and so cobwebbed with vines snowed thick with roses that thedoors and windows were wholly hidden from sight--sign that these weredeserted homes, forsaken years ago by defeated and disappointed familieswho could neither sell them nor give them away. Now and then, half anhour apart, one came across solitary log cabins of the earliestmining days, built by the first gold-miners, the predecessors of thecottage-builders. In some few cases these cabins were still occupied;and when this was so, you could depend upon it that the occupant was thevery pioneer who had built the cabin; and you could depend on anotherthing, too--that he was there because he had once had his opportunityto go home to the States rich, and had not done it; had rather losthis wealth, and had then in his humiliation resolved to sever allcommunication with his home relatives and friends, and be to themthenceforth as one dead. Round about California in that day werescattered a host of these living dead men--pride-smitten poor fellows,grizzled and old at forty, whose secret thoughts were made all ofregrets and longings--regrets for their wasted lives, and longings to beout of the struggle and done with it all.

  It was a lonesome land! Not a sound in all those peaceful expanses ofgrass and woods but the drowsy hum of insects; no glimpse of man orbeast; nothing to keep up your spirits and make you glad to be alive.And so, at last, in the early part of the afternoon, when I caught sightof a human creature, I felt a most grateful uplift. This person was aman about forty-five years old, and he was standing at the gate of oneof those cozy little rose-clad cottages of the sort already referred to.However, this one hadn't a deserted look; it had the look of being livedin and petted and cared for and looked after; and so had its front yard,which was a garden of flowers, abundant, gay, and flourishing. I wasinvited in, of course, and required to make myself at home--it was thecustom of the country.

  It was delightful to be in such a place, after long weeks of daily andnightly familiarity with miners' cabins--with all which this implies ofdirt floor, never-made beds, tin plates and cups, bacon and beans andblack coffee, and nothing of ornament but war pictures from theEastern illustrated papers tacked to the log walls. That was all hard,cheerless, materialistic desolation, but here was a nest which hadaspects to rest the tired eye and refresh that something in one's naturewhich, after long fasting, recognizes, when confronted by thebelongings of art, howsoever cheap and modest they may be, that it hasunconsciously been famishing and now has found nourishment. I could nothave believed that a rag carpet could feast me so, and so content me;or that there could be such solace to the soul in wall-paper and framedlithographs, and bright-colored tidies and lamp-mats, and Windsorchairs, and varnished what-nots, with sea-shells and books and chinavases on them, and the score of little unclassifiable tricks and touchesthat a woman's hand distributes about a home, which one sees withoutknowing he sees them, yet would miss in a moment if they were takenaway. The delight that was in my heart showed in my face, and the mansaw it and was pleased; saw it so plainly that he answered it as if ithad been spoken.

  "All her work," he said, caressingly; "she did it all herself--everybit," and he took the room in with a glance which was full ofaffectionate worship. One of those soft Japanese fabrics with whichwomen drape with careful negligence the upper part of a picture-framewas out of adjustment. He noticed it, and rearranged it with cautiouspains, stepping back several times to gauge the effect before he got itto suit him. Then he gave it a light finishing pat or two with his hand,and said: "She always does that. You can't tell just what it lacks, butit does lack something until you've done that--you can see it yourselfafter it's done, but that is all you know; you can't find out the law ofit. It's like the finishing pats a mother gives the child's hair aftershe's got it combed and brushed, I reckon. I've seen her fix all thesethings so much that I can do them all just her way, though I don't knowthe law of any of them. But she knows the law. She knows the why and thehow both; but I don't know the why; I only know the how."

  He took me into a bedroom so that I might wash my hands; such a bedroomas I had not seen for years: white counterpane, white pillows, carpetedfloor, papered walls, pictures, dressing-table, with mirror andpin-cushion and dainty toilet things; and in the corner a wash-stand,with real china-ware bowl and pitcher, and with soap in a china dish,and on a rack more than a dozen towels--towels too clean and white forone out of practice to use without some vague sense of profanation. Somy face spoke again, and he answered with gratified words:

  "All her work; she did it all herself--every bit. Nothing here thathasn't felt the touch of her hand. Now you would think--But I mustn'ttalk so much."

  By this time I was wiping my hands and glancing from detail to detailof the room's belongings, as one is apt to do when he is in a new place,where everything he sees is a comfort to his eye and his spirit; andI became conscious, in one of those unaccountable ways, you know, thatthere was something there somewhere that the man wanted me to discoverfor myself. I knew it perfectly, and I knew he was trying to help me byfurtive indications with his eye, so I tried hard to get on the righttrack, being eager to gratify him. I failed several times, as I couldsee out of the corner of my eye without being told; but at last I knew Imust be looking straight at the thing--knew it from the pleasure issuingin invisible waves from him. He broke into a happy laugh, and rubbed hishands together, and cried out:

  "That's it! You've found it. I knew you would. It's her picture."

  I went to the little black-walnut bracket on the farther wall, anddid find there what I had not yet noticed--a daguerreotype-case. Itcontained the sweetest girlish face, and the most beautiful, as itseemed to me, that I had ever seen. The man drank the admiration from myface, and was fully satisfied.

  "Nineteen her last birthday," he said, as he put the picture back; "andthat was the day we were married. When you see her--ah, just wait tillyou see her!"

  "Where is she? When will she be in?"

  "Oh, she's away now. She's gone to see her people. They live forty orfifty miles from here. She's been gone two weeks today."

  "When do you expect her back?"

  "This is Wednesday. She'll be back Saturday, in the evening--about nineo'clock, likely."

  I felt a sharp sense of disappointment.

  "I'm sorry, because I'll be gone then," I said, regretfully.

  "Gone? No--why should you go? Don't go. She'll be disappointed."

  She would be disappointed--that beautiful creature! If she had said thewords herself they could hardly have blessed me more. I was feelinga deep, strong longing to see her--a longing so supplicating, soinsistent, that it made me afraid. I said to myself: "I will go straightaway from this place, for my peace of mind's sake."

  "You see, she likes to have people come and stop with us--people whoknow things, and can talk--people like you. She delights in it; for sheknows--oh, she knows nearly everything herself, and can talk, oh, likea bird--and the books she reads, why, you would be astonished. Don't go;it's only a little while, you know, and she'll be so disappointed."

  I heard the words, but hardly noticed them, I was so deep in mythinkings and strugglings. He left me, but I didn't know. Presently hewas back, with the picture case in his hand, and he held it open beforeme and said:

  "There, now, tell he
r to her face you could have stayed to see her, andyou wouldn't."

  That second glimpse broke down my good resolution. I would stay and takethe risk. That night we smoked the tranquil pipe, and talked till lateabout various things, but mainly about her; and certainly I had had nosuch pleasant and restful time for many a day. The Thursday followed andslipped comfortably away. Toward twilight a big miner from three milesaway came--one of the grizzled, stranded pioneers--and gave us warmsalutation, clothed in grave and sober speech. Then he said:

  "I only just dropped over to ask about the little madam, and when is shecoming home. Any news from her?"

  "Oh, yes, a letter. Would you like to hear it, Tom?"

  "Well, I should think I would, if you don't mind, Henry!"

  Henry got the letter out of his wallet, and said he would skip some ofthe private phrases, if we were willing; then he went on and read thebulk of it--a loving, sedate, and altogether charming and graciouspiece of handiwork, with a postscript full of affectionate regardsand messages to Tom, and Joe, and Charley, and other close friends andneighbors.

  As the reader finished, he glanced at Tom, and cried out:

  "Oho, you're at it again! Take your hands away, and let me see youreyes. You always do that when I read a letter from her. I will write andtell her."

  "Oh no, you mustn't, Henry. I'm getting old, you know, and any littledisappointment makes me want to cry. I thought she'd be here herself,and now you've got only a letter."

  "Well, now, what put that in your head? I thought everybody knew shewasn't coming till Saturday."

  "Saturday! Why, come to think, I did know it. I wonder what's the matterwith me lately? Certainly I knew it. Ain't we all getting ready for her?Well, I must be going now. But I'll be on hand when she comes, old man!"

  Late Friday afternoon another gray veteran tramped over from his cabin amile or so away, and said the boys wanted to have a little gaiety anda good time Saturday night, if Henry thought she wouldn't be too tiredafter her journey to be kept up.

  "Tired? She tired! Oh, hear the man! Joe, _you _know she'd sit up sixweeks to please any one of you!"

  When Joe heard that there was a letter, he asked to have it read, andthe loving messages in it for him broke the old fellow all up; but hesaid he was such an old wreck that _that _would happen to him if sheonly just mentioned his name. "Lord, we miss her so!" he said.

  Saturday afternoon I found I was taking out my watch pretty often. Henrynoticed it, and said, with a startled look:

  "You don't think she ought to be here soon, do you?"

  I felt caught, and a little embarrassed; but I laughed, and said it wasa habit of mine when I was in a state of expenctancy. But he didn't seemquite satisfied; and from that time on he began to show uneasiness. Fourtimes he walked me up the road to a point whence we could see a longdistance; and there he would stand, shading his eyes with his hand, andlooking. Several times he said:

  "I'm getting worried, I'm getting right down worried. I know she's notdue till about nine o'clock, and yet something seems to be tryingto warn me that something's happened. You don't think anything hashappened, do you?"

  I began to get pretty thoroughly ashamed of him for his childishness;and at last, when he repeated that imploring question still anothertime, I lost my patience for the moment, and spoke pretty brutally tohim. It seemed to shrivel him up and cow him; and he looked so woundedand so humble after that, that I detested myself for having done thecruel and unnecessary thing. And so I was glad when Charley, anotherveteran, arrived toward the edge of the evening, and nestled up toHenry to hear the letter read, and talked over the preparations for thewelcome. Charley fetched out one hearty speech after another, and didhis best to drive away his friend's bodings and apprehensions.

  "Anything _happened _to her? Henry, that's pure nonsense. There isn'tanything going to happen to her; just make your mind easy as to that.What did the letter say? Said she was well, didn't it? And said she'dbe here by nine o'clock, didn't it? Did you ever know her to fail of herword? Why, you know you never did. Well, then, don't you fret; she'll_be_ here, and that's absolutely certain, and as sure as you are born.Come, now, let's get to decorating--not much time left."

  Pretty soon Tom and Joe arrived, and then all hands set about adorningthe house with flowers. Toward nine the three miners said that as theyhad brought their instruments they might as well tune up, for theboys and girls would soon be arriving now, and hungry for a good,old-fashioned break-down. A fiddle, a banjo, and a clarinet--these werethe instruments. The trio took their places side by side, and began toplay some rattling dance-music, and beat time with their big boots.

  It was getting very close to nine. Henry was standing in the door withhis eyes directed up the road, his body swaying to the torture of hismental distress. He had been made to drink his wife's health and safetyseveral times, and now Tom shouted:

  "All hands stand by! One more drink, and she's here!"

  Joe brought the glasses on a waiter, and served the party. I reached forone of the two remaining glasses, but Joe growled under his breath:

  "Drop that! Take the other."

  Which I did. Henry was served last. He had hardly swallowed his drinkwhen the clock began to strike. He listened till it finished, his facegrowing pale and paler; then he said:

  "Boys, I'm sick with fear. Help me--I want to lie down!"

  They helped him to the sofa. He began to nestle and drowse, butpresently spoke like one talking in his sleep, and said: "Did I hearhorses' feet? Have they come?"

  One of the veterans answered, close to his ear: "It was Jimmy Parishcome to say the party got delayed, but they're right up the road apiece, and coming along. Her horse is lame, but she'll be here in halfan hour."

  "Oh, I'm_ so_ thankful nothing has happened!"

  He was asleep almost before the words were out of his mouth. In a momentthose handy men had his clothes off, and had tucked him into his bed inthe chamber where I had washed my hands. They closed the door and cameback. Then they seemed preparing to leave; but I said: "Please don't go,gentlemen. She won't know me; I am a stranger."

  They glanced at each other. Then Joe said:

  "She? Poor thing, she's been dead nineteen years!"

  "Dead?"

  "That or worse. She went to see her folks half a year after she wasmarried, and on her way back, on a Saturday evening, the Indianscaptured her within five miles of this place, and she's never been heardof since."

  "And he lost his mind in consequence?"

  "Never has been sane an hour since. But he only gets bad when that timeof year comes round. Then we begin to drop in here, three days beforeshe's due, to encourage him up, and ask if he's heard from her,and Saturday we all come and fix up the house with flowers, and geteverything ready for a dance. We've done it every year for nineteenyears. The first Saturday there was twenty-seven of us, without countingthe girls; there's only three of us now, and the girls are gone. Wedrug him to sleep, or he would go wild; then he's all right for anotheryear--thinks she's with him till the last three or four days come round;then he begins to look for her, and gets out his poor old letter, and wecome and ask him to read it to us. Lord, she was a darling!"