USA > California > A picture of pioneer times in California, illustrated with anecdotes and stores taken from real life > Part 27
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Strange as it may appear, the telling of this lie troubled me, although I was about to commit a crime that could not be recalled or repented of. As I left the store, as I believed for the last time, I could not refrain from shak- ing hands with Mr. Neil, when bidding him good evening. This, and per- haps something in my manner, seemed to strike him, for he held my hand in his for a moment and looked earnestly in my face. Without appearing to notice his look of almost inquiry, I said, quietly: "On Monday morning I want to show you some corrections you will have to make in our account- current with Howard, Mellus & Co. and with Taffy McCahill & Co., of San Francisco. Both these houses have received some money on my ac- count, of which I did not advise you." This had the effect I anticipated. It carried his thoughts from me to his own little world, my ledger. I now started out on a quick walk for the lonesome, dark spot in the tule grass where my career was to end. There was a wild but subdued excitement in my brain, and as I hurried on with unfaltering steps, my eyes seemed to see more than they ever saw before, and my ears to hear more than they ever heard before. The coming darkness, to my intense gaze, looked terribly fearful, and seemed closing down in anger on my very existence. To my imagination, my ears plainly discerned the muffled tread of a legion of dark spirits all around me, leading and urging me forward. The slough was about three miles from my place of business. I had to keep the main road for about two miles before coming to the cattle path, or trail, that led through the tule grass to the slough. I had almost reached this point when some one in a buggy came dashing toward me. I turned to leave the road, but it was too late. I was hailed with:
1
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" Halloo, Harvey ! Wherethe mischief are you bound, or are you lost out here at this hour?"
I stopped, and recognized a Mr. Myers, a business friend, one of my best customers from the interior, and a worthy, honorable man. I made some confused excuse as to walking for health, etc.
"Come, jump in," Myers continued; " I will talk on business as we drive into town."
There was no get off, so into his buggy I went. I experienced a most pain- ful sensation as I did so. A few minutes before I had, in thought, bid fare- well to all the world and all its affairs. Now, I was forced, as it were, to return to it, and tell Mr. Myers the price of flour, tobacco, long-handled shovels, cotton drilling, used for damming the streams, and all other mer- chandise used in the mining districts.
" You must load me to-morrow," said he, " even if it is Sunday; for my teams will all be in to-night, and you are no better Christian than I am a Jew, and yet I have been to work all this day-my Sabbath."
" Christian !" said I, and the word sent a cold shudder through my frame. " If you are no better Jew than I am a Christian, you have not much to boast of."
" Well, Harvey, this is a sad and wicked world, as they say in the play; and my wife says this California of ours is the most wicked corner of it all; and that if we do not begin soon to act better, the devil will get us all, both Jew and Christian. But I say," he continued, "God is good, and may look with mercy on our peculiar position. Anyway, that is the way I argue the point with my good wife, and hope I may be right."
On reaching the town, I left Mr. Myers, telling him that if I was not at the store the next day when he called, Mr. Neil would attend to everything for him just the same as if I was there. It was now night, and so dark that I could not find my way back to the slough ; so, with regret, I had to defer until morning the execution of my unshaken resolution.
I recollected I had a duplicate key of the back door of the store; so at a later hour I stole in unobserved, and threw myself on a pile of opened blan- kets which lay on one of the counters-there to watch for the first dawning of the morning that I was determined should light my way to the slough. Sleep w.is slow in coming; and for hours I lay in mental agony, turning from side to side, and, strangely, I found myself, almost against my will, reflecting over and over the words of my Jew friend: "God is good, and may look with mercy on our peculiar position." At length, overpowered and weary from excitement, I fell into a profound sleep. Now, in my dreams, I was by the slough, in the yet dim light of the coming day. The dark, deep water looked terribly lonesome. The morning wind whistled and murmured mourn- fully through the tall, wild tule grass. Without flinching, I adjusted the rope, let the casting drop over the bank, and, turning my back to the dismal water, with steady hand shot myself through the brain. As the ball crashed through my head, I seemed to leap forward and then fall backwards at full length on the ground, my head alone over the bank, while the weight ap- peared to tighten the rope on my neck, until my staring eyes and blood- stained features and whole body became one hideous, swollen mass. Then I
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heard rushing sounds of confusion, and voices from towards the town. Nearer and nearer they came ; and now I could hear my friend Myers' voice above them all, as, leading the way, he cried out: " Yes; here I saw him last night, entering the tules in this direction, and here, now, are fresh footprints, and none returning." In an instant more a dozen dogs broke through the tules and commenced to howl piteously around my body. Then came Myers and Neil, followed, it seemed to me, by all the inhabitants of S -. Horror and amazement seemed to pervade the whole throng.
"It is Frank Harvey! It is Frank Harvey! Take off the rope! Take off the rope!" cried a dozen voices at once.
Some one, more forward than the rest, dropped on his knees, with bowie- knife in hand, to sever the rope, when, just then, the whole crowd seemed to open for some new-comer, and fall back in mute astonishment and awe. Oh, merciful God! the agony of that sleeping hour seemed now at its height, and beyond anything I could suffer during any waking moment of my life. For there I saw you, with terrible distinctness, advancing where the parting throrg had cleared the way, accompanied, it appeared to me, by a troop of bright, angelic beings, all robed in garments of dazzling whiteness and purity. In your dark hair were entwined the same wreath of flowers, the sparkling diamonds you wore on our wedding day ; but oh, how fearful to me was the changed expression of your countenance! On that blessed day, every feature, every look, when turned on me, expressed unbounded calm, confidence and love. Now every feature wore an expression of anger, scorn and contempt. As you approached close to my mutilated body, you drew from your finger the plain gold ring I had myself placed there. Holding it in your hand, you gazed on my body for a moment; then, casting it on my breast, exclaimed: "Oh, yes ! it is he! There, take that ring, which was to be the emblem of a union without end, but which you have now severed for all eternity. Miserable coward ! that could not summon the courage to en- dure a short life, though in suffering it might be-that would pass like a dream-that we might enjoy together boundless happiness with God and His angels. What you had lost by your infidelity, if repented of, was only at the most a few years of this life's happiness, and was as nothing to what you have forfeited by this great crime of self-murder. We are now separated for all time and eternity, and scorn is all I can feel for you." And now, speak- ing in a voice of authoritative command, you appeared to turn to the crowd, and continued: " Let no Christian burial ground be contaminated by the re- ception of the remains of this miserable suicide. Let no Christian hands touch his mutilated body. No! Let him rest in the spot that he himself has chosen. In the dark, foul waters of this stagnant slough. There," you continued, as with your slender white foot, gifted, it seemed to me, with magic power, you spurned my body; "go! go! Coward! coward! And slowly over the high bank my body seemed to slide, and with a fearful plunge to strike the waters far below. A piercing cry of agony broke from my lips, and, awakening, I bounded from my blanket bed to the floor, trembling in every limb and drenched with perspiration from head to foot, with your last words, " Coward, coward," yet ringing fearfully in my ears. I grasped one of the pillars that supported the main ceiling of the building, or I should
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have fallen. Soon recovering myself, I perceived the first faint dawn of the morning light showing itself through the small window over the store door. I recollected the dark work I had laid out for that hour; but now my terrible dream, with your looks of withering scorn and contempt, came plainly be- fore me ; and I tried to summon courage to forego my resolution and return to the world and endure, manfully, all the suffering and mortification that might be in store for me. I had partly succeeded, and was about to throw myself on my knees, as I used to do of old, and pray for assistance, when my ear caught the sound of a light tread on the floor above me. I started and listened; for it came towards the stairway that led to the store. In an instant the truth flashed upon me, that the girl Marsh had been aroused by my cry, and was coming to look for me. If I had just heard, in the distance, all the legions of hell rushing to seize me, I could not, it appeared to me, have been filled with greater terror than I was now, on hearing that light footstep on the stairway. My good resolutions vanished. Death on the spot where I stood, by my own hand, or in the most public street of S-, with all the disgrace of dying a suicide, seemed as nothing in comparison with ever again meeting and falling into the power of that woman. With one noiseless bound I reached the door at the foot of the stairs, and gently turned the key in the lock. I felt for my pistol in my breast pocket. It was there, and I knew well prepared for use. Without knowing exactly why, I snatched a gleaming bowie knife from a case on the counter and thrust it beneath my sash. Then I heard a light knock at the stairway door, and my name called in a low voice. My teeth chattered and my knees trembled, and that terrible despair I had before experienced again seized me; and again I saw no hope, no relief nor end to my sufferings but in death. My resolution was now fixed. The rising sun of that morning, I was determined, should not shine for me. By the door I had entered, in wild haste I left the store. Then on I rushed to clear myself of the town and find some new spot where I should, undisturbed, end my sufferings. I could not now face the slough where I had made the preparations. The vision of my night's dream was too terribly vivid.
While I sought death, I sought at the same time to fly from your angry words and looks, by leaving the town in an opposite direction to the road that lead to the scene of my vision. I had no fixed determination, and had gone but a short way when, turning a corner, I found myself in company with some twenty persons, mostly women, hurrying on in the same direc- tion with myself. At first I could not imagine what this meant, for it was yet far from clear light, and my excited imagination made me for a moment fear that my desperate intention was discovered, and that the whole town was aroused by it. A few steps further, however, brought us opposite a build- ing into which the crowd turned. I looked up and there stood the neat lit- tle church I had subscribed for, but had never entered, and between me and the bright morning sky stood out, as if appealing to me, the cross surmount- ing the little steeple. Just then the tinkle of the little bell, that I knew so well as indicating the commencement of service, caught my ear. It appeared to me that I stood once more before dear St. Joseph's Church, and that I had come to hear early mass, as hundreds of times I had done in Philadelphia.
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I stood overpowered by recollections of the past, unable either to fly from the spot or enter the church. I think at that moment there was a desperate struggle between the arch fiend and my Guardian Angel for control. One moment I was about to enter, the next to fly, when suddenly, the enchanting and solemn music of our church service broke forth sweetly on the early morning stillness. It wanted but this to complete the illusion, that it was indeed St. Joseph's Church that stood before me, and the good Father Bar- belin was its pastor. It was all so like those devotions he used to have just before the break of day, with sweet music that at that hour, above all others, arouses every feeling of devotion and piety in our nature. I seemed carried back to all the good influences of my youth, and, vielding to them, I entered. I sought an open pew in the shade of one of the pillars, and, sinking on my knees, with head bowed down, all the prayer I could utter was that of the publican. The wild storm in my heart seemed allayed, and courage and con- fidence came to soothe my agitated frame. My being in the church and my evident agitation of feeling had not escaped the notice of the good priest, who was the same to whom I had given the subscription. As soon as service was closed and most of the people had left the church, he came to where I was, and, leaning over me as I yet knelt, said, in a voice full of tender gentleness:
"Can I, either as a friend or as a priest, be of any service to you ?"
As I looked up, his countenance struck me as being marked with good judgment as well as with kindness. In an instant I resolved to throw my whole future conduct upon his guidance. I made no answer, but, turning to- wards where the confessional stood, I pointed to it. He understood me, and walking back to the altar put on his surplice and stole, and then knelt some moments in prayer before entering the confessional. It required all my reso- lution to follow him, but, seeing the scriptural sentence inscribed beneath the cross that surmounted the confessional: "Come to me, all you that labor and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you," I seemed to acquire strength and courage, and entered. Then in humility, that made me feel as though I was but a meek child, I disclosed to the good Father all my transgressions and all my sorrows.
His advice was long and earnest, and closed by requesting me to come again that evening. As I left the church he threw himself in my way and saluted me in a cheerful voice, as though he had not before seen me that morning, and invited me to take breakfast with him, saying that he would be all alone, as, although there was another priest just then with him, he would not be at breakfast, as he was to say the late mass, and could not break his fast until after service. I knew he could not allude to anything I had told him in the confessional, except at my directly expressed wish; so I accepted his invitation and after breakfast again restated to him all my troubles, and asked his advice, as a friend, as well as a priest. He told me that until he saw me in the church that morning, he had no idea I was a Catholic. When he spoke cheerfully of my future, I told him I had no hope that you would ever consent to our reunion. He said it might be so, but that it was my duty to send for you at once, and let you make your own choice when you should know all. The result was that under the good Father's advice, I did not return to the store, but stayed privately with him
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all that Sunday and the next day until the boat was leaving for San Fran- cisco, when I slipped off unnoticed. On arriving in the city, I disclosed everything to Henry, and requested him to repair to S. and have the woman Marsh discharged from my premises. I wrote confidentially to Mr. Neil to ask his aid for Henry. You know the rest. I wrote for you, but I let dark forebodings cast a shadow over the spirit of my letter, to partly, if possi- ble, school you for the horrid tale that awaited you here. Whatever may have been the motives of the woman Gabit, she rather aided than did me any harm by her visit to you, for it saved me from imposing on some friend the painful task of being the bearer, to you, of news that was to wither and blight all your bright hopes of coming joy and worldly happiness. Now, I have told you all, Ellen, just as it is known to the God above us, not a cir- cumstance that would add to my guilt have I knowingly left out. It was your right to know all, and when you have read these pages, be satisfied that there is not a secret of my life, to this hour of my existence, that is not shared by you. I am now at your feet; do with me as you please. All I directly ask for is that you will tell me that you want me to love you just as I do love you, and as I cannot help loving you to the end of my life. I want you to tell me that you wish me to live for you while it pleases God to leave us on this earth, and then to meet in heaven. I want you to tell me that you will watch every step of my life and pray to God to guide them all. I want you to write to me just as you used to do, and let me share every sor- row that may cross your path in life-that life that, but for me, would have been all so bright and joyous. I do not ask to share any joys or sunshine that God may, in His mercy, grant to your weary way. That would be more than I deserve. Your tears are all I ask to share. I want you to tell me that you do not despise or scorn me, and that I may, as of old, call you, though far away I may be, " My own darling Nellie." Oh, Ellen! even though it should be that we are not again to be reunited on earth, you can be my second guardian angel, to aid me to subdue my proud nature, and bear up manfully against the humility of my position, and to, every day, do some- thing to make me worthy of a place with you in heaven. And now, my dar- ling Nellie, may God comfort and bless you, which will be, my darling angel wife, the unceasing prayer of your devoted husband,
FRANK HARVEY.
CHAPTER IX.
THE WIFE'S LETTER TO HER HUSBAND.
Sometimes, while reading Frank's letter, Ellen was forced to lay it down and give way to bursts of uncontrollable grief; but each time, with heroic efforts, she resumed her task, until, at length, as the day was far spent, she reached its closing words of prayer for her. I called to see her that evening, but she had told Katie to ask me to excuse her; so I did not see her till the next afternoon, when she handed me a letter for Frank. As she did so, she was seized with a violent fit of hysterical grief, and it was all that Katie and I could do to calm her. Twice she took the letter back from me, and, laying it on the table before her, wept and mourned over it, and kissed with passion- ate kisses the address, with all that sort of wild grief with which the living part with some loved form at the edge of the grave. At length, summoning all her resolution, she handed me the letter, and with hurried steps disappeared from the
room. This closed the last of those terribly sad scenes I went through with poor Ellen at the Union Hotel. She occupied apartments there, in all, but thirteen days; yet, as I look back now, it seems to me it must have been at least a year, for no year of my life left the impression the events that trans- pired there in that short period left on me. That spot, the cor- ner of Merchant and Kearny streets, is connected in my mind with a sort of mysterious, sad, lonesome feeling, that I can never shake off. It is so inseparably connected with the sorrows and sufferings of poor Ellen and Frank, both of whom I devotedly loved. Though happy, in my own family, as man can be, and in all my surroundings, yet their fate has cast a shadow over my path, seen by myself only, it may be, that no sunlight ever wholly dispels.
The Union Hotel, built by Middleton, Selover & Joyce, at a cost of a quarter of a million of dollars, then in all its elegance,
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and the pride of our city, was afterwards burned to the ground, re- built and burned again; then rebuilt and sold to the city and con- verted into public offices. Yet, all these changes and more than twenty years of time, have left the spot unchanged to me, and I hardly ever, even now, pass that corner that I do not start as though Ellen must be somewhere there; and, sometimes, so viv- idly does she come to my mind and sight, at those times, that I almost fancy I again hear her mournful cry and convulsive sob- bing, as she dropped on her knees and joined in prayer with the good missionary, Katie and myself, that eventful afternoon when the Father accompanied me to see her. Then, again, I sometimes fancy, as I pass that building, that I hear her call me by name, and before I recollect myself, I have turned to enter, in obedi- ence to the summons. My wife shares with me in these feelings, and we often find ourselves walking an extra block to avoid that part of Kearny street. It was but a short time ago that we were spending an evening with a friend in Stockton street, where we remained so Jate that we had to walk home, the cars having stopped running. The night was beautiful, unclouded, and moonlight. Our shortest way lay down Washington street and then along Kearny. As we walked along, our conversation hap- pened to turn on a subject deeply interesting to us both, as par- ents. It was of a happy as well as of an absorbing character. Time and distance passed unnoticed, and even the ever-shunned spot on Kearny street was forgotten until my wife's arm sud- denly clutched mine tightly and I felt her tremble all over, as she stopped short. I looked up and found we were on Kearny, nearly opposite Merchant street. As I looked, I saw a lady and gentleman standing opposite the old Union building and ap- parently viewing it all over. I apprehended in a moment my wife's sudden nervous start, for the same tremor passed through myself as I recognized a most remarkable resemblance in the per- sons before us to Ellen and Frank, in figure, dress and form. Wthout speaking, or apparently observing us, the lady took the gentleman's arm, and they disappeared around the corner into Merchant street. We hurriedly resumed our walk, and, as we passed, we looked down that dark street, but the strangers were nowhere to be seen. Neither of us spoke for a time; at length, as we reached California street, my wife said, in a half choked voice:
" Henry, what do you think ?"
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" Think, dear Jennie," said I. " Of course, I do not think anything about it. ] I know the persons we saw were flesh and blood, like ourselves, idly looking at that building. I acknowl- edge the coincidence of their remarkable resemblance to our dear, departed loved ones, for it struck me, as I saw it did you; but, of course, it was only a coincidence, and even that would not, perhaps, have struck us, if we had seen these persons any- where but in that spot."
" But," urged Jennie, " what became of them ? They were not in Merchant street when we looked down it as we passed."
" Dear Jennie, do not allow yourself to be superstitious," I continued. " Recollect, in the first place, that Merchant street is dark, even on a bright night like this, and then, you know, there are doors to every building on both sides, one of which these persons must have entered before we reached the street."
" Well," said Jennie, " of course, it must be as you say, but I am not half over the fright yet. You and I were just then so completely lost in our own happy thoughts and conversation, that my first feeling was that our childhood's loved companions appeared to us as a reproach for our selfish, entire forgetfulness of them, when new joys came to crowd our path, as on the oc- casion of this marriage of our darling child."
All that night our dreams were of Ellen and Frank, but the cheerful light of the next morning dispelled the sad impressions that that walk home had left with us both in spite of all our ef- forts to cast them off.
But, to return from this digression to my story. As I took that letter to Frank from Ellen, I fully understood that, in parting with it, Ellen felt as though she was parting with Frank. The next day Frank gave me the letter to read. It was as follows:
My own darling, loved husband: My task is done; every sentence, every word of the terrible story of your California life is now before me, as vivid and living in my thoughts and memory as though each separate word that told the horrid tale had been seared on my brain and vision with fire that was never to go out or darken. I read it but once, but, oh, my darling Frank! how fearfully perfect I have it all by heart. Wherever I am, what- ever I am doing, over and over I trace every circumstance you have related. Sometimes it appears to me I am standing on the steamer deck that brought you to California, and see you wrapped in thoughts of me, and me alone, and I tremble, for I feel as though I was then displacing God from His just place in your thoughts. My darling husband, we are terribly punished for our for- getfulness of our entire dependence on Him. I am far the worse of the two,
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