USA > California > A picture of pioneer times in California, illustrated with anecdotes and stores taken from real life > Part 33
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" Ada, my love, what would you think of our going to Cali- fornia ?"
" Our going!" she repeated, "you mean, Edmund, of your going," and, bursting into tears, she threw herself into a chair close to him.
" No, darling wife, I do not mean my going; I mean of you, the children and myself going; but do not weep, dearest, I am not going to propose our being separated for one day," and, as he spoke, he slipped his arm around her waist, " and you are too brave a wife to weep because I propose to have you face a little danger and, perhaps, privations for a little time, standing by my side, as you will be, that we may have the pleasure of being somebody in this almost new world that has opened up before us."
" But, Edmund dear, California, they say, is no place for a woman."
" No place for a woman! and why so, my darling ? and who
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are they that say so? It is just the place for a woman who wants to be a woman, and not a nonentity, as so many women try to make themselves, and those who talk that stuff are those who have no appreciation of what a woman is, or ought to be. The women who talk that way are skulking, cowardly creatures, who want to steal through the world as an inferior part of crea- tion, unwilling to do their part, and perform the duties of life that God has so plainly assigned them."
" Oh, Edmund, you are too severe on all those wives who are now separating from their husbands; many cannot help it, you know."
" Well, dear, I cannot help it, or have much patience, when I hear people estimating the place of women and their duties to society at such a low standard. Of course, as you say, there is many a poor wife left at home to-day that cannot help it, and who would go but for this ridiculous idea so prevalent, that Califor- nia is no place for women. I say it is just the place for women. Without them the most refined men will turn to savages, and even brutes, and become ungovernable. The husband who can take his wife to California and does not, because he fears he can- not protect her, is a coward, unworthy of the love of woman, and is, moreover, ignorant of the high, chivalrous character of the race to which he belongs."
" Darling," said Ada, " I appreciate all you say, and agree with you, too, and if I found you could not be contented without going to California I would joyfully step out by your side, and, with you, face all the dangers of such a home, for I confess this fever, or whatever it is, has partly caught myself, but the fear of exposing our little ones holds me back, and, if it were not for this, I would go with you, my husband, to the ends of the earth rather than separate myself from you for even so short a period. But even as to the children, you have the right to be the judge, and your wife will not falter if you decide against her judg- ment."
" Ada, my darling, brave wife, whatever may be my abstract rights as the husband, this is a matter in which we should both agree, and one in which I should not be justified in following my single judgment when it is opposed to yours. So, my dar- ling, I will do nothing that you are not satisfied with. I long to go. I am like a bird in a cage, but I cannot make up my mind to separate from you and my darling little ones."
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" And I," said Ada, "cannot bear to detain you or separate from you, so I think I will go. But let us talk with our parents about it. What does Alfred think of it ? "
" He, like myself, is terribly opposed to married people sepa- rating, on any pretence, for so long a time as even for one year, and therefore favors your going with me, if I do go." Then Ed- mund arose, and kissed his wife, saying: " I want you to think of the matter, and talk with your father and mother, and we will come to some final decision as soon as possible, one way or the other."
This Ada promised to do. When she saw her parents she found them utterly opposed to either of them going to Califor- nia. Mrs. Morehouse stormed in anger at the idea. Ada spoke warmly in its favor, but made no impression on her parents. Mr. Morehouse finally said that if Edmund decided to go, ho was in favor of Ada's going with him. This the mother declared would be her own death, and that, if Edmund went, he should go alone. Each was so decided in his own views in this respect that Ada saw that it was impossible for her parents to agree. It was the first time in all their married life that they so entirely dis- agreed and each remained so unyielding. They both agreed, however, in being opposed to either Edmund or Ada going. So matters stood when Ada left to meet Edmund at dinner. She found Alfred and Alice with Edmund, on her return home. That evening the whole matter was discussed over and over. At length Alice said :
" I see how you and . Ada both feel. Edmund, you do not want to go if Ada is not to go with you, and she fears to take the children, and is loth to give such great pain to her dear mother, who has been such a loving, good mother to her all her life, and yet it is an agony to her to keep you at home when your own judgment says ' Go,' or to separate from you and let you go alone. As the matter looks to me, Edmund, I think you must let Ada decide the whole matter for herself. I know she will not like to do this, and that it will be most painful to her, but I see no escape from it, taking all the circumstances into consideration; but I think you must both adopt this idea, and act upon it without hesitation."
" The only objection I have to what you say, Alice," said Ed- mund, " is that it looks ungenerous to darling Ada to throw such a responsibility on her."
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As poor Ada listened, tears ran down her cheeks, but, wiping them away, she said, in a firm voice:
" Well, darling husband, I will take the responsibility and de- cide for us both. It is the only way I see to solve the difficulty. I will see dear mother, and do my best to get her consent, and if I do, I will go with you. But if she will not yield, let us take it for the best, and then, darling, why, I will let you go without me."
And, in spite of all her efforts, she was again in tears. But Edmund caressed her, and she soon recovered herself. The next day Ada had a private interview with her father, which re- sulted in his promising to do all in his power to get her mother's consent to her going with Edmund. In the conversation which ensued between Mr. and Mrs. Morehouse, Mrs. Morehouse ex- claimed: "I am perfectly astonished, Willard, to hear you talk in this way. Only think, after all the pains we took to educate and give Ada the advantage of acquiring every accomplishment to make her an ornament to society, for which she is so well fit- ted and in which she is so much admired, that you should now advocate her burying herself in that horrid California, that no one knows anything about, and that will be overrun with horrid, rough characters. Why, no virtuous woman would be safe there, and, if Edmund takes Ada there, he will be murdered in trying to defend her."
" My dear Sarah, your feelings on this occasion entirely cloud your usually clear judgment. In the first place, we educated Ada not to set herself up for a show; not simply to please what is termed " society " among the heartless, worldly fashionables. No, wife; our object was to fit her to be the bright, accomplished and capable mistress of an American household, if it should be God's will to call her to that position, as it has been, and under any circumstances to be an educated, refined lady, who would ever bring sunshine and happiness to those around her, let her condition in life be what it might. The fruit of a refined edu- cation, viewed rightly, is as potent for happiness to its possessor on the banks of the far-off Sacramento or San Joaquin as it is here in Newark, or even in the city of New York; and as to be- ing in danger in California, in my experience in my profession I have seen enough to kuow that the eyes of a virtuous woman are more powerful as a defence of her person than the revolver and the bowie-knife of the strongest man are to him. Before
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them the libertine quails, while the simple murderer might re- main undaunted before his armed victims. But, wife, who are those men whe will now mostly overrun California ? They will be Americans, the most courteous and considerate people on earth to women, except alone, perhaps, the Irish and French, who, as we see them here, cannot be outdone in this respect by any nation on earth. You will find that a lady in California will be an object of universal respect, and woe to the traitor who offers one of them an insult. I pity him, if such a wretch deserves any pity, for his shrive will be short, and his fate the gibbet or worse. My professional experience, too, is terribly against married people separating for any consider- able time. Take what I have said, dear wife, into consideration, and see if you can bring yourself to make this sacrifice for the good of our dear ones."
Then Mr. Morehouse walked over to where his wife was weep- ing bitterly, and, kissing her affectionately, he left the room. Some days passed after this conversation, but Mrs. Morehouse remained immovable, and the result was that Edmund left for California without wife or children.
CHAPTER X.
FIRST LETTER FROM EDMUND-MRS. BUCKET.
Allen & Roman took a young man into partnership in their business, of the name of Wheeler, and now the firm in San Francisco was to be " Allen, Wheeler & Co.," and Wheeler was to accompany Edmund to California. They took a handsome stock of goods with them, and, if successful, Alfred Roman was to close the Newark house and take an office in New York, to at- tend solely to the purchasing of supplies for his partners in San Francisco. Robert Morehouse, just returned from college, was to live with his sister Ada, and she was to remain in her own house until she should hear from Edmund.
The parting day came, and, as may be supposed, was as sad as sad could be to them both; but the wild dreams of California gave them both feverish strength to endure what, a year before, they could not have imagined they would have voluntarily sub- mitted to-a separation for so long a time and for such a journey. It was nearly two months before Ada got her first letter from Edmund. She tore it open, trembling all over, while tears ran down her cheeks. Glancing through it, she saw he was well; then she dropped on her knees, bowed her head and thanked the Giver of all good most fervently. Edmund wrote in high spirits of the business prospects in California, and told her many laugh- able incidents of the journey and the place. Then the last page was wholly devoted to her and the children, and, as she reads it, she is interrupted by her tears and sobs. Take the letter as a whole, however, it is most consoling and satisfactory, and calcu- lated to make her feel much happier than she had been at any time since it was determined that Edmund should go to Califor- nia. Now everything goes on smoothly. Every mail brings long letters from Edmund to Ada and the firm. His orders for more goods, and his shipments of gold-dust are much larger than their most sanguine expectations had hoped for. Alfred
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Roman has closed the Newark store, and is now in his office in New York every day, purchasing goods ordered by his partners in San Francisco.
When Edmund was away about six months he wrote Ada a letter, expressing more than usual lonesomeness and homesick- ness. The letter ran on to say :
The accident of a doubtful debt induced me to purchase a nice little cottage on Stockton street, all handsomely furnished, and do you know that I have got it into my head to ask you to come out and occupy it, instead of renting it, as I first intended to do. Oh, Ada, how supremely happy that would make me. As I have often written to you before, the idea of California being no place for women is a stale humbug. There are a large number of highly re- spectable families, not only here in San Francisco, but in all the interior towns of the State. I attended a little party to which I was invited the other evening. I went there more to see how the company would look than from any pleasure I expected to derive from the party itself. I assure you I was quite astonished to meet so many nice ladies as I found there. They were refined, elegant women, too, with hardly an exception. They were all mar- ried, and had their husbands with them. Lucky fellows ! So don't be jeal- ous, old woman. You would have been charmed, darling, with this little company. Everybody seemed to know everybody in a minute. There was no formality, and yet there was no want of due politeness and consideration for each other. No offensive familiarity either. I was delighted, and re- solved to write to you about coming out. Does your dear mother look on such a move with any more favor ? Do, darling Ada, try to get her consent, for lonesome is no name for my feelings when I am without you. The fact is, I cannot endure this separation much longer. I wish to say to you here that you may now and then meet or hear of a poor, sneaking creature of a woman, or an inefficient, lazy, cowardly man, who has returned home from California to denounce it and vilify the people they left there. Pay no at- tention to such. They are unworthy of the least credit, or any notice what- ever. John W. Geary, who came out here as Postmaster, and who, when ho lost that, managed himself into the office of Alcalde of San Francisco, has been so cowardly mean as to send home his wife and children, though one of the children was born here. Darling wife, do not regard such an example. Such men must live in the world, but of what use they are I do not under- stand. Come to me, dear wife, and you will find here not only a loving hus- band's arms open to receive you, but the greatest corner of the greatest coun- try on the face of the earth for you to live in."
After Ada received this letter she again besought her mother to give her consent, but Mrs. Morehouse seemed unable to yield, and Ada could not summon courage to go without her mother's approbation. So passed three months more, until one day Mrs. Morehouse was surprised by a call from a Mrs. Dr. Bucket.
This Mrs. Bucket was the wife of a Doctor who had lived in New-
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ark for a number of years. Shortly after the breaking out of the California excitement, the Doctor left for San Francisco, and took his wife with him. In Newark, Dr. Bucket was considered a good physician, and was much respected by all who knew him. The wife was in many respects a good sort of a person, but was talkative and fussy, and had a great desire to pry into and under- stand other people's business. This propensity often lost the Doctor valuable patients. Most people, however, paid little at- tention to this propensity of Mrs. Bucket, and ascribed it to the fact that she had never been blessed with children. Be this as it may, it was sometimes very offensive. Her sudden appearance in Newark surprised all her old acquaintances, and, as soon as her presence was known, she became the center of attraction for all who had relations and friends in California, or who were thinking of going there. She was besieged with visitors. They all found her in high spirits, elegantly dressed and altogether the picture of happiness. She gave a glowing description of the business prospects of San Francisco, and, in fact, of all California. No one, she said, who had a particle of energy could fail in California. But when she was surrounded by lady visitors only, she had a habit, at the end of her glowing description and praise of California, of throwing up her hands and exclaiming, in a sort of tragic horror: "But oh, my dear friends, the men out there are horribly wicked in one respect- yes, in one respect, ladies." Then, lowering her eyes as she looked over her gold specs, and letting down her voice, she would add in a confidential sort of tone: "They are all untrue to their wives left at home. Yes; as horrible as it may seem, my dear friends, I tell you but simple truth when I say all."
On one of these occasions, there was among her auditors a young, bright-eyed, little grass widow, whose faith in her own husband it was impossible to shake, and this sweeping assertion of Mrs. Bucket's only caused her lip to curl with contempt, while she said in a voice suited to her way of feeling: "Did you say all, Mrs. Bucket ?"
" Yes, my dear friend," said Mrs. Bucket, in a sad sort of a tone of voice, "I did say all."
" Well," responded the little widow, who felt spiteful and mischievous, "how about your own husband, while you are away now, Mrs. Bucket ?"
This seemed rather to corner her for a moment, but, recover-
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ing herself she said: " Well, to tell you the truth, I could not trust even the Doctor in California, and would not have come away for this short trip but that the poor, dear man is laid up with a bad sprained knee, and cannot possibly get out before I get back."
This candid acknowledgment was so absurd that the whole company joined in a hearty laugh at Mrs. Bucket's expense. This little turn against herself evidently angered Mrs. Bucket very much, and, biting her lip, she looked towards the author of her discomfiture with anything but a pleasant expression of face, but, wishing to pass it off, she resumed:
" Well, ladies, you may laugh as you please, but I am speak- ing for your own good; yes, only for your own good."
As she said this her eyes were again over her glasses on the little widow, with a reproving expression.
" And to convince you that I know what I am talking about, I will tell you an instance where I myself, yes, I myself, saved, yes, saved, I can truly say, a whole family."
Here she paused, and, in turn, looked at every one of her auditors, but finally rested her gaze on the little grass widow, and, in a voice of mysterious solemnity, continued:
" You must know in the first place that I am remarkable for my detective talents."
" We all knew that before you left here," broke in the little widow.
Without noticing the interruption, Mrs. Bucket continued:
" So that many people in San Francisco believe me to be some blood relation of the famous detective of my name mentioned in one of Dickens' works; which is ridiculous, as my father's name was Pry."
" Was his first name Paul ?" interrupted the little widow.
" No; it was Jacob," answered Mrs. Bucket, in an impatient, sharp tone, darting an angry look at her tormentor. " Well, ladies, those talents with which nature has endowed me, I thought, of right belonged to the people of our growing young city, in which my husband and myself have found such a prosperous and happy home; so, when the Doctor was out visiting his patients, and I had nothing else to do, I made it my business, yes, my duty, I may say, ladies, to watch my neighbors, and see that they were going all right, and behaving as good Christians and citi- zens should behave; so, in pursuance of this self-sacrificing pur-
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pose, as soon as the dear Doctor was out of the house I used to put on my things and take a walk through all the neighboring streets, stopping occasionally, you know, at corner-groceries, butcher-shops, and even at some respectable looking drinking saloons, to make inquiries about one thing or another, and pick up all sorts of items of information. Well, on these excursions I often noticed at a nice house not far from where we lived, an over-dressed creature sitting in the window, always looking out when I passed. My curiosity, or rather, I should say, my desire to do good was aroused, so I made several inquiries as to the in- mates of that residence, and, ladies, I soon got at the truth, and was shocked. I found that a Mr. Briggs, a well-known merchant of San Francisco lived in this house. I would not thus tell his name, but that we are so far away that it can be of no conse- quence, for I am, I assure you, ladies, one of the most prudent, discreet persons on earth about such matters."
" Of course you are, Mrs. Bucket," said the little widow.
" Well, as I was saying, I found it was Mr. Briggs who lived there, and that he was a man of large family; but, ladies, his poor wife and children reside, at this very time, you understand, in Cincinnati; so who could this over-dressed creature I had seen in the window be ? Well, I soon found out, and it was just as I feared; the case was as bad as you can imagine, ladies, so I felt it my duty, unpleasant duty, of course, but nevertheless a duty I could not shrink from, to inform Mrs. Briggs of the conduct of her husband, and to advise her to come at once to San Fran- cisco. This I did in a long, well-considered letter. This letter, of course, I did not show to the Doctor, because the Doctor, poor man, is one of those, I am sorry to say, who never will in- terfere in other people's business, no matter what the prospect may be of doing good. If that was my disposition, and I am glad it is not, I never would have saved this poor family, as you will presently hear. Well, as I was saying, I did not show the Doctor the letter, but privately dispatched it to Mrs. Briggs. The husband had been keeping her well supplied with money. These California renegade husbands are very cunning in these respects; so look out, dear ladies."
Here Mrs. Bucket again bent a meaning glance on the little widow, whose lips, in response, curled contemptuously.
" But the moment," continued the narrator, "the poor wife got my letter, which was so circumstantial in details of facts as
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to leave no room for a doubt, for, ladies, I never deal in anything but facts."
" Of course not, Mrs. Bucket," said the little widow, with the same contemptuous expression on her lips.
At this interruption Mrs. Bucket turned uneasily in her chair, but continued :
" The poor woman's eyes were opened, and she at once, to use a Western phrase of ours, 'pulled up stakes,' and was on her way to California with her five children, in three days after the receipt of my letter. They arrived all safely. I had given them the exact location and description of the house where Mr. Briggs lived, so that she had no difficulty in finding it. On arriving in the city Mrs. Briggs went direct to the office of the Chief of Po- lice, Fallon, and inquired for Captain Casserly of the Police, just as I had recommended her to do. I recommended her to Cap- tain Casserly, for I am proud to be able to tell you, ladies, that he is a particular friend of mine. He is a very good sort of gen- tleman, though I am sorry to add that he is not properly nice in his ideas of this heart-rending evil I am constantly bemoaning in San Francisco. But he appreciates my detective abilities, and whenever he meets me he asks me for 'points ' about matters and things in general, as he knows I can give him valuable in- formation, and always reliable. And, then, I often get many ' points ' of great interest from him, especially about the conduct of married men." Here her eyes were again on the little widow. " But, as I said, not being properly nice himself about such mat- ters, he only laughs and walks off when he sees how shocked I am at what he tells me."
"Are such consultations common between gentlemen and la- dies in San Francisco ? " asked the little widow.
At this Mrs. Bucket turned short around and in an angry voice said: " Madam, you should recollect that in my arduous self- sacrificing task of reforming immoral husbands, and restoring the moral wrecks to their often good-for-nothing wives, who have refused to go with them to California, I could properly hold a conversation with a respectable police officer like Captain Cas- serly, which it would be out of place and offensive to my natural delicacy of feeling, for which I am remarkable, to repeat here to you, ladies." Then turning away so as to cut off the retort she feared, she went on: " Mrs. Briggs did not find Captain Casserly, so Chief Fallon sent officer Howard with her to the house I de- 23
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scribed in my letter. When they arrived there officer Howard and Mrs. Briggs both walked up to the door. The officer rang the door bell, and out came, sure enough, the very over-dressed creature I had described in my letter to Mrs. Briggs as sitting in the window every day, looking out. ' Who are you, madam ?' said Mrs. Briggs, in a rage. 'I am Mrs. Briggs,' minced out the over-dressed creature. Then Captain Howard, seeing that the real Mrs. Briggs could not compose her temper, took the matter in his own hands. 'Miss Flouncy,' said he (these were his very words, ladies, for I had a description of the whole scene from the Captain himself). 'Miss Flouncy, I suppose you know me ?' ' Oh, yes, Captain, I do,' said the over-dressed creature. ' Well, then,' said the officer, 'just get all your duds to- gether, and this hack will take you and them wherever you wish to go; for here is Mrs. Briggs and her five children, who come to take possession of this house.'
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