第20章 THE RUINS OF SAN FRANCISCO(4)

"O,she was not strong enough,and had seen some of his friends' wives in Kansas who could do more work.But he never complained,--was so kind."("Two souls,"etc.)

Sitting there with her head leaning pensively on one hand,holding the poor,wearied,and limp-looking baby wearily on the other arm,dirty,drabbled,and forlorn,with the firelight playing upon her features no longer fresh or young,but still refined and delicate,and even in her grotesque slovenliness still bearing a faint reminiscence of birth and breeding,it was not to be wondered that I did not fall into excessive raptures over the barbarian's kindness.Emboldened by my sympathy,she told me how she had given up,little by little,what she imagined to be the weakness of her early education,until she found that she acquired but little strength in her new experience.How,translated to a backwoods society,she was hated by the women,and called proud and "fine,"and how her dear husband lost popularity on that account with his fellows.How,led partly by his roving instincts,and partly from other circumstances,he started with her to California.An account of that tedious journey.How it was a dreary,dreary waste in her memory,only a blank plain marked by a little cairn of stones,--a child's grave.How she had noticed that little Willie failed.How she had called Abner's attention to it,but,man-like,he knew nothing about children,and pooh-poohed it,and was worried by the stock.How it happened that after they had passed Sweetwater,she was walking beside the wagon one night,and looking at the western sky,and she heard a little voice say "Mother."How she looked into the wagon and saw that little Willie was sleeping comfortably and did not wish to wake him.How that in a few moments more she heard the same voice saying "Mother."How she came back to the wagon and leaned down over him,and felt his breath upon her face,and again covered him up tenderly,and once more resumed her weary journey beside him,praying to God for his recovery.How with her face turned to the sky she heard the same voice saying "Mother,"and directly a great bright star shot away from its brethren and expired.And how she knew what had happened,and ran to the wagon again only to pillow a little pinched and cold white face upon her weary bosom.The thin red hands went up to her eyes here,and for a few moments she sat still.The wind tore round the house and made a frantic rush at the front door,and from his couch of skins in the inner room--Ingomar,the barbarian,snored peacefully.

"Of course she always found a protector from insult and outrage in the great courage and strength of her husband?""O yes;when Ingomar was with her she feared nothing.But she was nervous and had been frightened once!""How?"

"They had just arrived in California.They kept house then,and had to sell liquor to traders.Ingomar was hospitable,and drank with everybody,for the sake of popularity and business,and Ingomar got to like liquor,and was easily affected by it.And how one night there was a boisterous crowd in the bar-room;she went in and tried to get him away,but only succeeded in awakening the coarse gallantry of the half-crazed revellers.And how,when she had at last got him in the room with her frightened children,he sank down on the bed in a stupor,which made her think the liquor was drugged.And how she sat beside him all night,and near morning heard a step in the passage,and,looking toward the door,saw the latch slowly moving up and down,as if somebody were trying it.And how she shook her husband,and tried to waken him,but without effect.And how at last the door yielded slowly at the top (it was bolted below),as if by a gradual pressure without;and how a hand protruded through the opening.And how as quick as lightning she nailed that hand to the wall with her scissors (her only weapon),but the point broke,and somebody got away with a fearful oath.How she never told her husband of it,for fear he would kill that somebody;but how on one day a stranger called here,and as she was handing him his coffee,she saw a queer triangular scar on the back of his hand."She was still talking,and the wind was still blowing,and Ingomar was still snoring from his couch of skins,when there was a shout high up the straggling street,and a clattering of hoofs,and rattling of wheels.The mail had arrived.Parthenia ran with the faded baby to awaken Ingomar,and almost simultaneously the gallant expressman stood again before me addressing me by my Christian name,and inviting me to drink out of a mysterious black bottle.

The horses were speedily watered,and the business of the gallant expressman concluded,and,bidding Parthenia good by,I got on the stage,and immediately fell asleep,and dreamt of calling on Parthenia and Ingomar,and being treated with pie to an unlimited extent,until I woke up the next morning in Sacramento.I have some doubts as to whether all this was not a dyspeptic dream,but Inever witness the drama,and hear that noble sentiment concerning "Two souls,"etc.,without thinking of Wingdam and poor Parthenia.