and he relaxed and urged his horses on with a smart cut of the whip, as
though he could not enter the state of a "respectable business man" soon
enough. When they came to Crystal Springs he brought a bunch of red
roses once more, and held them up to her with a roguish smile on his no
longer gloomy face. She took them with a little blush at the remembrance
of his first attempt at gallantry; and when he sat beside her again, he
fastened them with his own hands in her shining braids. They were as
merry as children out for a holiday; and only when they drove up to the
depot at San Mateo did the old gloom come back into his face as he
lifted her from her elevated position.
"After three days, if in the land of the living, I will come to claim
you for my bride"--what more he said was lost in the din and racket of
the approaching train.
She saw nothing of him after she had watched the supple figure at the
last moment springing lightly on the platform of the last car. But she
knew he was near and was happy.
Early the next forenoon, in the counting-room of a mercantile firm on
Front street, sat one of the principals, enjoying his Havana, when the
door was darkened by the shadow of a tall figure standing in it.
"Jim--old fellow!" he cried, seizing the newcomer by both hands.
"Welcome--thrice welcome! Have you come to stay, vagabond and rover? Say
at once--I read something in your face that tells me you are unbending
at last. Are you in love, my dear boy?--or what hath wrought this
change?"
"How you do run on, Luke. You have not changed, at least. Yes, I am the
prodigal son, returning to his father to be--set up in business.
And--no--I'm not in love; I have simply learned to worship the dearest,
noblest girl, and will make her mine--or die," he added, in a lower
tone.
"Why not accept my offer, Jim? The desk at my elbow is always kept
vacant for you. Your father, poor man, is not the only friend you have,
remember." He laid his hand impressively on his friend's arm, and looked
with frank affection into his face.
Their interview was a lengthy one: friend Luke seemed averse to parting
with his old chum, and the son seemed in no great haste to greet his
father. But as we need not intrude on their first meeting, we can rejoin
father and son as they ascend the broad stairs in front of the family
residence, whither the father has taken his son in the first flush of
happiness.
"You will love little Willie, I know; he is a brave boy, with long
flaxen ringlets just like my--like his mother." For the first time
something like hesitation came into his speech, and even the son's heart
beat faster for an instant as the door swung open in answer to the old
man's ring. He preceded him through the corridor, threw open a door and
called out, "Jim has come home, my dear; we are going into the library,
and will be ready for lunch after a while."
She had known of their coming just a moment before they entered; he felt
it, for she had snatched up the boy, and half hid her face in his dress.
Very faded she looked; her cheeks, softly rounded once, were thin, and
the pink and white of her complexion had grown sallow. The "long fair
ringlets," too, were but limp, stringy curls, that hung without grace or
fulness down her back. The eyes, pale blue, though radiant once with
health and happiness, were weak and expressionless--save that a dumb
terror was written in them now.
A smile, half contemptuous, half pitying, flitted over the young man's
face as he passed through the room, with only a silent bow to the woman.
When they had vanished she stood like a statue, till the prattling of
the boy on her arm recalled her to herself.
"He spoke not one word to me," she said, as she put the boy down, "not
one word. Oh, to hear the tone of his voice once more--only once more."
The door was open through which they had passed, and her burning eyes
seemed to pursue the form last vanished through it. She silently rose,
like one in a dream, and walked slowly, slowly along the corridor that
led to the library.
Little Willie pulled over mamma's willow work-stand first, and then
found harmless amusement in winding a spool of crimson embroidering-silk
around and around the legs of a convenient table.
What was it that turned his little beating heart and his puny white
face to stone all at once? Was this really a Medusa on which he looked?
The long ringlets seemed serpents, indeed; every one of them instinct
with the wild despair the bitter hatred pictured on the face that looked
so meek and inoffensive but a while ago. "His bride!"--the serpents
hissed it into her ears--"His bride! Never--never. She shall die--and
he? I will murder him with these hands, first. His bride--and I am to be
a friend to her--ha! ha! ha! The dotard." Every one of the serpents
echoed the mad laugh, as the woman threw back her head and clinched her
hands in wild defiance. The child broke out into shrill complaining
cries, and she sprang toward him, seized him and shook him by the
shoulders till his breath failed. But in the midst of her mad fury the
door opened, after a soft knock, and a female servant entered the room.
"Is Master Willie troublesome?" she asked. "Dear heart; let me take him,
mum."
"Leave the room instantly, nurse; Master Willie is naughty and will
remain with me."
Two little arms were stretched out imploringly; but nurse had to
withdraw--with her own opinion of Master Willie's naughtiness, and
"Missus' temper."
But the furies were banished, and when father and son entered the room
some time after to say that they would take lunch down town, "Sylvia,"
as the old man addressed her, came forward quietly, leading the child by
the hand, and spoke words of welcome to him, in his little brother's
name. And she gave him her hand as she said "good-by," to the old man's
unspeakable joy.
Poor old man! He fondly dreamed the gods were propitiated, the furies
appeased; that the son whom he really loved had been restored to his
rightful place, and would be guardian at some future day to the child
of his old age--the son his idolized young wife had given him.
Yet he had not strength to battle against the storm that the idolized
young wife called up--the storm that was to sweep from him again the
long-lost, bitterly mourned son. Ah! well; it is not hard to fancy how
she strained every nerve to wrest from another the happiness once within
her own reach. Had she not bartered away her peace when she ruthlessly
deserted the man she loved? And should some other woman be happier than
she? No! Let them all be wrecked together. What cared she? Her husband;
bah! Her child, yes; she strained him to her breast, and bemoaned him,
and caressed him, and said that he was to be robbed by that wicked,
wicked man, who had come to disturb their quiet happiness. That his
unnatural father was about to squander on his undutiful older son, who
had deserted him and disgraced him for years, the fortune she had been
so sparing of--knowing that she would be left alone in the world some
day, with no one to provide for herself and her child. And she would
take her child now--a fresh burst of hysterical grief--right now, and
start out into the cold world to earn her daily bread, or beg, for her
child--for it would come to that, now that this cruel, hard-hearted man
had undertaken to provide for his profligate, vagabond son.
And the child, little knowing how useful a tool he was in his mother's
hands, wept with her, and would not be comforted by the distracted
father, but clung to his mother's neck, crying, when she made a feint of
leaving the house at the dead of night. Then the old man in his anguish
promised to abandon his "vagabond" son, and was but too happy to have
peace restored to his troubled home at this price. After all, the boy
had lived away from him so many years; had never troubled himself about
him; then why should his father heap all this trouble on his own head
for what might be only a passing whim of the boy's?
The third day had dawned since the long-lost son's return. Friend Luke
again sat in his counting-room, in company with his early Havana, his
meditations were disturbed by a boy, who was shown in by one of the
clerks. "A note for you, sir," and he had vanished.
But the young merchant seized his hat when he had glanced at the
contents, and repaired, breathlessly, to his friend's hotel. Cold sweat
stood on his forehead when he knocked at the door, and it was opened by
a stranger. One glance at the bed and at those standing around it was
sufficient.
"I was his friend," he said, and they respectfully made room for him.
He touched the cold hand, and gently lifted the cloth that hid the rigid
face. His friend had always been a good shot, and Luke groaned as he
replaced the cloth.
"Poor girl, poor girl--and I am to break the news to her!"
The doctor who had been called in, a shock-headed, spectacled German,
looked at him, first from under his glasses, then over them, and at last
through them. "Aha!" he said, with evident satisfaction, catching at
Luke's words, "now we have it. It vas a voman who made dis misfortune,
after all."
"A woman"--Luke repeated, softly; "yes, but her name was Sylvia."
_CROSSING THE ARIZONA DESERTS._
HEAD-QUARTERS DEPARTMENT OF CALIFORNIA, }
SAN FRANCISCO, CAL., March 11, 1868.}
MY DEAR MADAM:--The next steamer for Wilmington is advertised to sail on
the 14th, but as she is not yet in, her departure may be delayed a day
or two.
I enclose letters to the commanding officers of Drum Barracks and Fort
Yuma, and am,
My dear Madam,
Truly yours,
E. N. PLATT.
It was my intention to visit quite a remote part of Arizona; and,
although an officer's wife, having no personal acquaintance with any of
the officers stationed in the Territory, the letters the colonel gave me
to the commanding officers of both these posts, through which I should
have to pass, were very acceptable. As I was quite alone, the commanding
officer of Drum Barracks was particular to give me reliable people for
my long journey. Phil, the driver, was a model, and in many respects a
genius, while the two soldiers--who had been in the hospital when their
comrades had started for Arizona, two months before, and who were sent
by the post commander to protect "Government property" (the
ambulance)--were attentive and good-natured, as soldiers always are.
With so small an escort, it was possible--nay, expedient--to make the
journey very rapidly. We were unincumbered by tents or baggage--my only
trunk and what provisions we carried were all in the ambulance, which
was drawn by four large mules. I had decided, being alone, to stop at
the forage-stations, whenever we could reach them, expecting to take my
meals there and to find quarters for the night. Luckily, the
quartermaster and Phil had made arrangement and provision to have my
meals cooked by one of the soldiers, in case the "station-fare" should
not agree with me; and my ambulance was of such ample dimensions that it
was easily turned into a sleeping apartment for the night: so that Phil,
who had all the merits and demerits of such places by heart, had only to
give an additional nod of the head to induce me to say to the
station-keeper, who would always invite me to enter his "house" when
Phil drove up to the _corral_, "No, thank you: I can rest very well in
the ambulance." Then there were days' marches to be made when no station
could be reached, so that we were compelled to camp out; and on such
occasions Phil would appear in the full glory of his well-earned
reputation. He boasted that he had brought fully one-half the number of
officers' wives who ever visited Arizona to the Territory himself, and
that he had always made them comfortable. Knowing, of course, before,
whenever we should camp out, he would go to work systematically. His
carbine was always by his side, and early in the morning he would
commence his raid on the game and birds abounding, more or less,
throughout the Territory. Slaying sometimes five or six of the
beautifully crested quails at one shot without moving from his seat, he
would send one of the soldiers to gather up the spoils, and then set the
men, placed one on each side of him, to pick the birds. That this was
thoroughly done he was very sure of, for he watched the operation with a
stern eye. Not the smallest splinter of wood, or anything combustible,
was left ungleaned on the field over which he passed on such a day;
fifty, ay, a hundred times, he would turn to his right-hand man, or to
his left, with the admonition:
"Miller, we've six birds to cook, and bread to bake, to-night: pick up
that stick."
Down would jump Miller, trusting to his agility, and the gymnastics he
might have practised in younger days, for safety in vaulting over the
wheels; for never a moment would Phil allow the ambulance to halt while
this wayside gathering was going on.
I always preferred camping out to "bed and board" at the roadside hotels
of Arizona, for Phil, with all his sagacity, would sometimes go astray
in regard to the eligibility and comfort of the quarters furnished. As,
for instance, at Antelope Peak, where my mentor assured me I should find
a bedstead to place my bedding on, and a room all to myself. I _did_
find a bedstead; but after the family (consisting of an American
husband, a Spanish wife, sister-in-law, brother-in-law, and three
children) had removed their bed-clothes from it, to make place for mine,
it looked so uninviting that I requested Phil to spread my bed on the
floor. I had a room all to myself, too; but, on retiring to rest, I
found that the whole family--again consisting of husband, wife,
sister-in-law, brother-in-law, and three children--had spread their bed
on the floor of the adjoining room, which, being separated from my
apartment only by an old blanket, coming short of the ground over a
foot, and hung up where the door ought to be, enabled, or rather
compelled me to look straight into the faces of the different members of
this interesting family. As it grew darker, and the danger of being
stared out of countenance passed over, another serious disturbance
presented itself to my senses. All my friends can bear witness to the
fact that I consider Mr. Charles Bergh the greatest public benefactor of
the present age (the woman who founded the hospital for aged and infirm
cats not excepted), and that, with me, it calls forth all the combative
qualities lately discovered to lie dormant in woman's nature, to see any
harmless, helpless animal cruelly treated; but if I could have caught
only half a dozen of the five hundred mice that nibbled at my nose, my
ears, and my feet that night, I should exultingly have dipped them in
camphene, applied a match, and sent them, as warning examples, back to
their tribe.
Only once after this, toward the close of the journey, did Phil entice
me to sleep under a roof. It was at Blue-water Station; and the man who
kept it turned himself out into the _corral_, and made my bed on the
floor of the only room the house contained. There was no bedstead there,
but the man gave his word that neither were there any mice; so I went to
sleep in perfect faith and security. When I woke up at midnight, I
thought the Indians must have surprised us, scalped me, and left me for
dead. Such a burning, gnawing sensation I experienced on the top of my
head that almost unconsciously I put up my hand to see if they had taken
_all_ my hair. But I brought it down rapidly, for all the horrid,
pinching, stinging bugs and ants that had ensconced themselves in my
hair, during my sleep, suddenly fastened to the intruding fingers, and
clung to them with a tenacity worthy of a better cause.
But these experiences were not made until I had crossed the greater part
of the Arizona deserts; and I considered them rather as pleasantly
varying the solemn, still monotony of the days passed, one after one, in
a solitude broken only, at long intervals, by those forlorn government
forage-stations.
The first desert we crossed was still in California--though why
California should feel any desire to claim the wilderness of sand and
rattlesnakes lying between Vallecito Mountain and Fort Yuma, I cannot
see. We had passed over the thriving country around San Bernardino, and
through the verdant valley of San Felipe; and striking the desert just
beyond Vallecito, it seemed like entering Arizona at once.
Could anything be more hopelessly endless--more discouragingly
boundless--than the sand-waste that lay before us the morning we left
the forage-station of Vallecito! For days before, Phil had been
entertaining me with stories and accounts of travellers who had been
lost in sand-storms on the deserts. Not a breath of air stirred--not a
cloud was to be seen in the sky on this particular morning;
nevertheless, I watched for the signs that precede the springing up of
the wind with a keen eye, as the ambulance rolled slowly and noiselessly
through the deep sand, and I listened attentively to Phil's stories. The
road we followed was but a wagon-track, at best, and I could well
believe that, in ten minutes from the time a storm sprang up, there
would be no trace of the road left. Then commence the blind wanderings,
the frenzied attempts to regain the friendly shelter of the station, on
the part of the inexperienced traveller--ending, but too often, in a
miserable death by famine and starvation. The sand, flying in clouds,
conceals the distant mountains, by which alone he could be piloted; and,
straying off, he finds himself bewildered among piles of sand and
tattered sage-brush, when the storm has blown over. The remains of human
beings found by parties going into the mountains have proved that such
poor wretches must have wandered for days without food, without water,
till they found their death, at last, on the wide, inhospitable plain.
Their death--but not their grave; for the _coyote_, with his jackal
instinct, surely finds the body of the lost one, under the sand-mound
mercifully covering it, and, feasting on the flesh, he leaves the bones
white and bleaching in the pitiless rays of the sun.
"Phil," said I, interrupting him, "you told me the mules would not get a
drop of water to-day: what is that lake before us, then?"
He looked up to where I pointed.
"It is _mirage_, madame. _You_ cannot be deceived by it; I am sure you
must have seen it on the plains, before this."
"Yes," I said, stoutly, "I have seen _mirage_; but this is water--not
_mirage_."
"We shall see," said Phil, equally determined to hold his ground.
But I was sure it could not be _mirage_--it must be water--for did I not
see each of the few scattering bushes of _verde_ and sage that grew on
the border, and farther out, all through the water, reflected in the
clear, slightly undulating flood? The bushes seemed larger here than any
of the stinted vegetation I had yet seen on the desert, and every bush
was clearly reflected in the water; but it was strange that as we
approached the water receded; and if I noted any particular bunch of
sage or weeds, I found that, as we neared, it grew smaller, and I could
no longer see its image in the water.
Phil was right--it was the _mirage_; and this _Fata Morgana_ of the
plains and deserts of our own country became a most curious and
interesting study to me. I could write a volume on the "dissolving
views" I have seen. Leaving camp one morning, I saw, on turning, that a
narrow strip of short, coarse grass had been suddenly transformed into a
tall, magnificent hedge; and a single, meagre stem of _verde_ would as
suddenly grow into a large, spreading tree. Out of the clouds, on the
horizon, would sometimes loom up, majestically, a tall spire, a heavy
dome, or a vessel under full sail; and changing into one fantastic shape
after another, the picture would slowly fade into vapor at last. Whole
cities have sprung up before my eyes: I could have pointed out which one
of the different cupolas I supposed to be the City Hall, and which
steeple, according to my estimation, belonged to the First Presbyterian
Church; and could have shown the exact locality of the harbor, from the
number of masts I saw across the roofs of the houses yonder. Even Phil
was deceived one morning. I asked him why he stopped the ambulance, and
allowed the mules to rest at so unusual an hour in the day? He pointed
to a mountain I had not noticed before, which stood almost in front of
us, and was steep and bare, of a light clay-color.
"There ain't a man driving government mules knows this road better'n I
do; but I'll be derned if ever I saw that mountain before."
He asked the men if they thought it could be _mirage_, but they hooted
at the idea--it was too substantial for that, altogether; it was a
mountain--nothing else. But while we were, all four, so intently gazing
at it, the scene was shifted; the mountain parted, leaving two steep
banks--the space between apparently spanned by a light bridge.
For days we continued our journey through the desert, making camp
generally near one of the numerous wells indiscriminately scattered
between Vallecito and Fort Yuma. There are Indian Wells, Sacket's Wells,
Seven Wells, Cook's Wells, which, on close inspection, prove to belong
to the dissolving views, of which Arizona possesses such a variety; an
old well-curb or muddy water-hole generally constituting all the claim
these places have to the distinction of being called wells. But no; at
Cook's Wells, we _did_ find a good, clear well of water; nor is this the
only object of interest connected in my mind with the place. The
station-keeper told me that a tribe of friendly Indians, not far from
here, the Deguines, were to celebrate the funeral rites of a departed
warrior the following day. The spirit of the "brave" was to find its way
up to the Happy Hunting Grounds from the funeral-pyre on which the body
was to pass through the process of incremation--this being their mode of
disposing of the remains of deceased friends. A novel spectacle it would
be, no doubt; but I decided not to witness it. I could already see
Castle Dome looming in the distance, and I knew that I should be able to
reach Fort Yuma in the course of the following day. So we left Cook's
Wells early in the morning, and reached the crossing of the Colorado
some time in the forenoon.
The Colorado river was "up," Phil said; and I was prepared to agree
with him when I saw an expanse of muddy water covering the flat, on the
other side, to a considerable distance. The old scow, or flat-boat,
manned by two dirty-looking Mexicans, had no difficulty in coming up
close to us, where we were waiting on the shore: the difficulty lay in
our getting on the crazy thing without breaking through the rotten
planks. Perhaps the two Mexicans looked so dirty because all their
"clean clothes" were hanging out to dry, on two lines of cowhide,
stretched on either side of the flat-boat, which the wind kept blowing
into the mules' faces, causing them to "back out" twice, after our
_entrée_ to the ferry had been almost effected. There was no railing
around the boat (the four posts from which the clothes-line was
stretched having evidently been erected at the four corners for that
purpose), and, as it was only just large enough to afford standing room
for the ambulance and the men, it was anything but soothing to a woman's
nerves to see the mules rear and plunge every time the wind flapped one
of the articles on the line into the animals' faces. I had remained in
the ambulance, and in my usual corner, but as the shore receded, and an
ocean seemed to stretch out on every side of me, I found it hard to stay
there. I had suggested to Phil, in the first place, to cut down those
miserable clothes-lines, if the Mexicans refused to gather in their
week's washing, but he had quieted me by saying that our men would hold
the mules. However, when the current grew swifter, and the Mexicans
found some difficulty in managing their craft, the men were directed to
take the long poles, of which there was an abundant supply, and help to
steer clear of the logs floating down the river.