USA > California > A picture of pioneer times in California, illustrated with anecdotes and stores taken from real life > Part 35
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MY OWN DARLING WIFE : This is Sunday evening. I am seated in my little bed-room writing this letter. Things are more comfortable than they used to be around me. In fact, to look around this room one would suppose it had your superintendence. Well, notwithstanding this, I am not at ease, my darling wife. If you were here, I feel that I would be a better man, as well as a thousand times more happy. Well, as I have had a sort of an adventure to-day, and not much else of interest to tell you, I will give you an account of it and of all my thoughts and doings this Sabbath day. I feel like doing this as I am uncommonly lonesome-sad and disturbed in my feelings the whole day. Why this is so I cannot tell; but I suppose every one is subject to such turns.
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After our breakfast I walked to the Catholic church, on Vallejo street. This church has just been finished, and is quite a church building for San Fran- cisco. It is a plain wooden structure, not one ornament of any description on it; but it is such an improvement on the little, old dwelling-house where the Catholics heretofore had service, that it looks quite grand. It is about such a building as would be considered a good barn with you in "the States," as they say here. It, however, cost a large sum of money, lumber being worth over two hundred dollars per thousand feet in this town just now. The Catholics here being few, and some of them not very zealous, it was found very hard to raise the necessary funds to complete this church. However, just at the right time, a Mr. John Sullivan arrived from the mines with gold dust enough, it is said, to sink a reasonably large ship, and, with a liberality worthy of his good fortune in the mines, stepped forward and advanced enough of money to complete the building ; so that now Father Langloir, a good little Canadian priest, has the satisfaction of having the best church building, and much the largest congregation, of any denomination in Sau Francisco, under his charge.
To-day a Father Coyle, a priest who arrived here a few months ago, preach- ed, as he often does, a rather peculiar, but a most eloquent sermon. I none part of it he touched all our hearts by alluding, in the most beautiful and feeling language, to our loved friends in their distant homes. To be worthy of these dear friends, to be worthy of being citizens of this glorious nation of ours, were some of the motives he urged upon us for leading a spotless life here in San Francisco, where so many give themselves up to excesses.
" We must not forget," he said, " that we were sent here, plainly by God Himself, as pioneers in the great work of laying the foundation of the huge pillar upon which the American Temple of Liberty is to rest here, on the Pacific Coast.
"Yes," he continued, while his eyes flashed with enthusiasm, " we are a chosen band, a chosen people, to do this work. The day will come when others will be chosen and sent north, and yet others far away to the south, to do the same kind of work we are doing here in California; for this great Temple of Liberty will not be beautiful in its architectural construction, nor in its enduring' strength, while it rests on the shores of only the Atlantic and Pacific for support. No ; it must also have a base resting close to the frozen oceans of the north, and another on the sunny lands of the Isthmus of Panama.
" Then will the unnatural foreign rule have vanished from the north, and pnerile attempts at government from the sonth, leaving the whole conti- nent the undisputed ' land of the free and the home of the brave.' Then will the monarchs and tyrannical governments of the earth stand astonished; for the great center-piece or mighty dome of this American Temple will rise, towering up in beauty, magnificence and power; and upon it shall stand the Goddess of Liberty, plainly in sight to the ends of the earth, holding aloft in one hand that civilizer of nations, the Cross, and in the other our na- tional emblem, the Starry Banner. No clouds will dare obscure this beau- tiful vision. Sunlight will ever gild it, and reflect from it such warm, genial rays that they shall everywhere be felt, causing to fructify and warm
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into life every scattered seed of liberty now lying as dead in the cold atmos- phere of misgovernment and tyranny.
"Yes, you men, California pioneers, here before me, recollect that God has given you a glorious task. He has honored you in this choice; honor Him in your lives. I am proud, too, that there are so many of your wives and sisters here with you. They have an angel's part in this great work. They cheer and encourage you in all that is good and virtuous. They stand ready with cup in hand to refresh you when you thirst, and when you are tired and weary, they, with gentle hands, will wipe the sweat from your brow. Yes, California will owe these pioneer women more than can ever be repaid; for, in heroic courage and self-sacrificing devotion to their duties, as wives, sisters and mothers, they are unsurpassed by any women in the history of our country. Californians, be proud of them, and ever guard their honor with a thousand times more jealous care than you would your own lives."
I have given more of this sermon than I intended, but it pleased me, and I liked his views of the rush of our people to this coast; for, you see, he does not look on us, as others pretend to do, merely as sordid gold-hunters, but rather as an advance guard of honor, inspired by the genius of American liberty and progress, to come here and arouse into life this glorious western addition to our Republic. These views accord with mine exactly, and I shall never be satisfied until my darling wife is here by my side, to share with me in the glory of being one of the founders of this city of San Francisco, des- tined, as it surely is, at a future day, to outstrip the largest and proudest city on the Atlantic seaboard. The church music we had to-day was very fine, in fact it was beautiful, but somehow it made me feel very sad and lonesome. When I left the church I did not feel like returning home for lunch, so I struck out on a walk towards the ocean, over the sand hills I have so often described to you. An hour and a half brought me to a high bluff, almost due west from the city, overlooking the ocean. I was well tired, so I threw myself down by a large rock that, with some scrub oaks that grew near it, formed a sort of a shelter, and I had a fine view of the grand old ocean. The day was beautiful, but the sea showed signs of late great commotion, for huge waves broke on the shore and against the bluff where I lay with terrible force. This was a scene that always fascinates me, and I lay there for an hour, gazing out on the mighty water. Man, and all his wants and cares, yes, all the nations of the earth and their affairs seem to sink into insig- nificance and nothingness when one is contemplating this vast and fearful element, striking towards you with its ever thundering, roaring crash, and then receding with sluggish and, as it were, sullen disappointment, to gather new power for another blow against the barrier that dares to limit its sway. You can half fancy that you hear the great Creator saying: " Come here, you little creatures of men, that are so puffed up and swollen out with your own fancied importance, and look at a little piece of my work!"
At length my eyes grew heavy, and as I yielded to the inclination to sleep I found myself repeating over and over Dickens' sick child's question, " What are the wild waves saying ?" Now the landscape before me seemed to change. It grew dark and stormy; far away over the sea, I could see the opposite shore, and there I saw you standing, dressed just as you were the
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morning we parted; but your countenance now expressed terror in every feature, and your arms were stretched out as if in an effort to reach me. Then another change came. The ocean now ran full of mountains of broken ice, all crashing together with a horrid noise, and over it you came rushing with fearful leaps, with the children in your arms. "Why," said I, "this is Ada's dream realized. Oh, no; it cannot be. It must be that I am my- self dreaming." And then I seemed to make desperate efforts to arouse my- self, bat now, to my horror, some one seemed to grasp me, and, locking up, there stood Madam Defray over me, with her horny fingers on my throat, while she began to drag me towards the edge of the cliff, evidently in- tending to fling me into the sea. I seemed to struggle with desperation, but nearer and nearer we came to the frightful precipice, and closer and closer her bony fingers sank into my throat. I seized her with both hands, and called for you to come and help me. I heard you give a frightful scream, and then the fiend-woman, with a demoniacal chuckle of triumph, raised me high in the air and pitched me off, and I awoke excited and trem- bling in every limb. Just then I heard another scream. Jumping to my feet, I saw, soaring high above the dark waters of the sea, an immense sea- bird, keeping itself in harmony with the wild scene in which it was taking such evident delight, by screaming horribly.
All I had gone through in this sleep was so vividly before me, and so seem" ing real, that it was some minutes before I could make myself believe that I was the victim of a nightmare. I found that while struggling in the dream I had torn up a bunch of California lupins, that grew near where I was lying, and in some way I cut one of my temples slightly. I think I never suffered as much in the same space of time, either awake or asleep, in all my life before. The choking sensation in my throat continued for an hour. You may judge that I had enough of the ocean for one day. A quick, long walk home was just what I needed to work off the effects of this frightful dream, and yet it did not wholly do so. What continued to disturb me most, was the circumstance of that dream of yours coming to my imagination in this frightful way, for it never had come to my thoughts before since the night you dreamed it. However, as you know, I do not lay much stress on dreams, and after a good night's rest and to-morrow's rushing work, I shall have forgotten it, and my sea-side nightmare, which was my Sunday's ad- ventures, I told you I would relate.
With a thousand and a thousand kisses, and hugs for each of my darling little ones, and five times as many for your own dear self-
I remain, as always,
Your loving husband,
EDMUND F. ALLEN.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE WIFE'S ANXIETY-DEPARTURE.
As Ada finished reading her husband's letter, she let it drop, with one hand holding it, into her lap, while she supported her head with the other hand, as her elbow rested on the arm of her easy chair. She seemed buried in thought for a long time. Speaking audibly to herself, she said :
" That dream ; how strange that it should have come to him in
that horrid way ! What can it mean ? Nothing, I suppose; yet how very strange. Who is living with him ? Who takes care of his room, which he says was so comfortable ? Strange he does not tell me. After " our breakfast," he says. Who took break- fast with him? Strange he does not tell me ! Who can Madam Defray be ? He must have some one living with him in that cot- tage he bought. Who can it be ? Why does he not tell me ? Why does he talk of being a better man if I were with him ? I always thought he was better than I was. Why was he so troubled in mind ? Pshaw ! I believe I am a little fool, and get- ting jealous ; talking in this sort of a way looks like it. No, I am not jealous ; if I were to get jealous, I believe I would go mad. That is, if I had cause to be jealous; but dear Edmund should have explained. It would have been just so pleasant if he had done so. Not that I care, for I know I am not jealous in the least. The fact is, I could not be jealous of Edmund; that is, and live ; so it is foolish even to think of it. Why is it that this letter does not seem like all his other letters ? I suppose he was, as he said he was, troubled in mind. Oh, dear ! I wonder he did not explain. This letter is a nice, interesting letter, but I wish he had not told me about that horrid dream, and that fiend of a woman Defray. Oh, yes; I am glad he told it. I want to know everything about him. I wish he had told me more. This is about such a letter as he would write to his sister Alice, or to his mother. His letters to me were always not of that kind.
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There was love in every line of them ; as I read them I felt as if I were in a dream, listening to sweeter music than ever was on earth. They were dearer and sweeter, because they were writ- ten for me alone, and no one on earth could understand them as I did, for it was his heart speaking to mine, in language our love for each other had taught us. This letter others can read and understand. But why do I grumble? The poor, darling fellow was troubled in his mind, and could not write as he used to do. I wish I were there. I ought to be there."
" Yes," said she, rising from her seat, laying the letter on the piano, and with both her hands rubbing back her clustering, loose hair from her temples; " I do wish mother had let me go when he bought that cottage and wrote for me. Yes; there is no use in talking, I must and will go. I am sick of being classed as a ' California widow.' They are getting to be such a despised class ; some of them are behaving themselves so badly."
Ada now looked pale and troubled. Her right hand she pressed across her breast, over her heart. Upon her left she rested her forehead, as she leaned her head forward. In this position she silently walked up and down the parlor for ten or fifteen min- utes. At length she murmured: "Oh, what is it that makes me so troubled and so unhappy ? I must read his letter again ; it must be that I am captious to-day, and that I only fancy this letter restrained and cold, as it were, compared with all his oth- ers. His letters always sounded to me like the joyous song of a bird, and flooded my heart with happiness. " Yes," she contin- ued, as she now walked over to the piano and took the letter, and again throwing herself into the chair; "let me read it over once more; I must have taken a wrong view of it."
Now she read it over slowly and carefully. As she came to his frightful vision on the cliff, she started and turned deadly pale, and, covering her eyes with her hand, let her head drop back and rest for a moment on the back of the chair. Then, seeming to recover herself, she resumed her reading. When she concluded, she sat in thought for a moment, then said aloud:
" Yes; I will go and see Alice. She comes nearer to Edmund than any one I know on earth, and I am always happy when I am with her."
She rose, went to the nursery, hugged and kissed the children, telling them that they were papa's kissss and hugs that he sent them in a letter. Then she gave some general directions to the nurse, telling her that she was going to Mrs. Roman's, and
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would return very soon. But Ada, after her long walk, did not find Alice at home. She had gone to New York that morning, not to be home, the housekeeper said, until evening. Ada felt very much disappointed, and was now really in low spirits. As she walked home, tears stole down her cheeks, in spite of all she could do to restrain them. On her way, it so happened that she passed the church where Edmund had a pew. The door of the church was open, as if inviting her. After a moment's hesitation, she entered and stole noiselessly into her husband's pew. Every- thing around was so silent and impressive that it filled her with awe. She knelt, where Edmund had so often knelt, and, covering her face with her hands, she leaned her head forward, on the lit- tle shelf in front, and, while tears streamed through her fingers, she murmured :
" Oh, God! forgive me for all transgressions, and do not let me lose faith in my husband. Do not let me believe evil of him. Oh, give my weak heart courage to do what is right in all things. Oh, show me what I should do, and give me strength to do it."
As she left the church, she thought her prayer was heard; for, though yet agitated, she knew not why, she felt perfectly decided as to her future course, and full of resolute courage to meet all the difficulties that might rise up to oppose her.
" Yes," she said to herself, as she gained her own door; " the next steamer that leaves for California after the one that leaves the day after to-morrow shall take me; that is settled; I wil begin my preparations this very day, just as soon as I eat dinner with the children and Robert. I will not tell brother Robert, but I will send him, after dinner, for father, as I want to tell him, and get his consent and blessing, and he will get mother's consent I know, when she finds how miserable I am. I love my darling parents as well, I am sure, as ever child loved before, but I am a wife and a mother, and it is God who has made that tie above all others on earth, and I realize that it is so; it ap- pears to me to-day more plainly than it ever did before."
Now, if Ada had heard what Edmund had said aloud to him- self as he walked over the sand-hills on his way back to San Francisco that Sunday he had the seaside nightmare, it would have explained to her who Madam Defray was, but it might not have lessened her anxiety; and if she had seen the reception he met with at his own cottage that evening, it surely would have made matters worse. As he strode along, he said aloud:
" How strange that Madam Defray should have appeared to
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me in that horrid way. Well, I will drop her and her concerts. It was not enough that she got me to join in signing that card asking her to repeat her concert, but she must have me go to her rehearsals, where she is surrounded by those tawdry girls. I will take this as a warning, any way; there is no harm in that. So, Madam Defray, I am done with you; I feel your bony fin- gers on my throat yet!"
As he entered the gate at his own little cottage, a handsome little French woman throws open the front door, and exclaims, in charming broken English:
" O dear! my heart's all sorry; one dinner all no hot; no in time, Mr. Allaine ; I put dinner in hot stove, but long time not here."
Edmund shook hands with her cordially, saying:
" My dear Madam Bellemere, do not make yourself unhappy; I am so hungry that dinner will taste first-rate, hot or cold."
And so it proved, for Edmund ate most heartily, and then re- tired to his room to write the letter Ada had just read.
Ada having taken the resolution to go to California without consulting any of her relatives, and apprehending opposition from nearly all of them, she became excited, and nervous in her whole manner. At dinner her brother observed it, and said:
" Why, sister Ada, what is the matter with you ? I do believe you have been crying. Are you well, dear sister? Mr. Roman told me that brother Edmund was well, and doing well. Is he not ?"
" Oh, yes, dear Robert, perfectly well; I have been a little excited by my walk to see Alice, and then I have a plan on hand that keeps me a little fussed; I will tell you all about it to-mor- row. I want particularly to see father this evening. Would you, dear brother, go and ask him to come ?"
Robert, of course, readily consented, and, on leaving the table, started for his father's house. On the way Robert met a college friend, who detained him talking, so that he did not get to his father's until after Mr. Morehouse had left on his mission to see Ada. After Robert left the house, Ada became more and more nervously excited, as she anticipated, in imagination, the coming scene with her father. All his love for her, as she now looked back to her earliest recollections, manifested as that love was in so many thousand ways, came to her mind. She could not draw to her mind one selfish word or act of his towards her; not
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even an angry word or look. She was always his pet, his dar- ling, yet he never passed over the most trivial fault without pointing it out to her; but even when he reproved her he made her feel that he did so because of his watchful, devoted love. In all her little childish troubles she flew to him, and always left him comforted, and resolved to do as he advised, rather than commanded. He was to her at such times what the great oak tree is to a frightened bird in a storm. This was the feeling that prompted her to send for him just now. She felt a storm im- pending, and she wanted to draw protection from the great old oak that had never failed her. As she waited his coming she felt, in fact, like a child, and could hardly make herself believe she was the mother of children. As Mr. Morehouse approached the house, the night had closed in, and the gas was just lit in Ada's parlor. One window-shutter was half open, so that he had a full view of the room from where he stood in the street. There he saw Ada, with her arms folded, walking up and down the parlor, looking excited and anxious, often stopping suddenly, and, in a listening attitude, looking towards the door; then she would resume her walking, with the same anxious look.
"She is surely in trouble," said Mr. Morehouse, as he looked on, " and evidently she expects some one. Can it be that the poor child has heard what I have come to tell her? Oh! yes; it must be so."
He rang the bell, and Ada herself, anticipating who it was, admitted him.
" Darling father," said she, throwing her arms around his neck, and kissing him on both cheeks, "how kind of you to come so promptly when I sent for you."
" Sent for me, dear Ada ! Why, I did not know you wanted to see me."
" Oh! you have not seen Robert, then ? Well, it makes no difference, as you have come."
" Does anything trouble you, my child ?"
" Yes, dear father, something does trouble me; but what, I hardly know myself; but you shall hear all, and then I want you to bless me and approve of the resolution I have taken. So, darling father, sit down near me on this sofa, and, with your arm around me, listen to me. Do you recollect, long, long ago, when I was but fifteen years old, I got into, what appeared to me, a great trouble at school. My teacher accused me wrong-
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fully, my school companions believed me guilty, and they all shunned me. I was miserable. I came home, and went to look for you. I found you seated on a sofa like this, in the library. I never said a word, but walked over and seated myself close to you. Then I laid my head right there on your heart, and wept and sobbed as if my heart would break."
As Ada spoke, her eyes were streaming with tears, while yet they were wide open and beaming on her father's face. With a steady gaze, she went on:
"Well, darling father, you held me in your arms until I had my cry out. Then you wiped my tears away, and talked to me of my trouble so sweetly, so kindly, that I began to feel happy again. You advised me, and told me what to do; and I left you, feeling more like a woman grown than the weak child I felt my- self when I sought you."
" Yes, my darling child," said Mr. Morehouse; " I do recol- lect all that, and every marked passage of your life since your dear mother first laid you in the cradle, to this hour.
" Well, darling father, I have felt all day more like acting little Ada Morehouse of that day, long ago, than I ever did in any day of my life since then. So, I sent for you to bear my weakness, and then strengthen and encourage me with your counsel and advice."
As she stopped speaking she threw her arm around his neck, and, dropping her head on his shoulder, gave way to a fit of un- restrained weeping.
Her father gently supported her on his arm for a few minutes without speaking, while sympathetic tears that he could not sup- press stole down his face.
" Ada, my child, do not give way too much, and tell me all you have heard that so troubles you."
" Heard, father ? I have heard nothing."
" Heard nothing ?" repeated her father, in great surprise. " What, then, darling child, has made you so unhappy ?"
"Dear father, when I tell you, I fear you will not have pa- tience with me."
" Do not fear that, my dear child; but tell me all."
" Well, father, an undefined anxiety and fear has troubled me for some days, and Edmund's letter of to-day has terribly in- creased it. I tried, but I could not shake off this feeling; so I went to church to-day, and I prayed to God to guide me to do
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what was right; and, all at once, resolution came to me to go to California and join my husband; so, darling father," she continued, dropping her voice so low as to be hardly audible, while her lips trembled as she spoke, "I am going on the next steam- er that leaves after this one. Say I am right, darling father, and that you will bless me, and that you will get darling mother's consent and blessing for me, too !"
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