THE WIDOW STEIN AND LITTLE JOHNNIE--"DAUGHTERS OF A SAINTED
MOTHER"--ESTRANGEMENT AND DESOLATION--A RESOLUTION AND A VOW--MY PEOPLE
ARRIVE AND PLAN TO BEAR ME AWAY.
On the first of September, 1855, a widow, whom I shall call Stein, and
her little son Johnnie, came to visit grandma. She considered herself a
friend by reason of the fact that she and her five children had been
hospitably entertained in our home two years earlier, upon their
arrival in California. For grandpa in particular she professed a high
regard, because her husband had been his bartender, and as such had
earned money enough to bring his family from Europe, and also to pay
for the farm which had come to her at his death.
Mother and son felt quite at home, and in humor to enjoy their
self-appointed stay of two weeks. Despite her restless eye and sinister
smile, she could be affable; and although, at first, I felt an
indescribable misgiving in her presence, it wore away, and I often
amused Johnnie while she and grandma talked.
As if to hasten events, Mrs. Bergwald had sent for Georgia almost at
the beginning of the visit of the Steins; and after her departure, Mrs.
Stein insisted on helping me with the chores, and then on my sitting
with her during grandma's busiest hour.
She seemed deeply interested in California's early history, and when I
would stop talking, she would ply me with questions. So I told her how
poor everybody was before the discovery of gold; how mothers would send
their boys to grandma's early morning fire for live coals, because they
had no matches or tinder boxes; how neighbors brought their coffee and
spices to grind in her mills; how the women gathered in the afternoons
under her great oak tree, to talk, sew, and eagerly listen to the
reading of extracts from letters and papers that had come from friends
away back in the States. I told her how, in case of sickness, one
neighbor would slip over and cook the family breakfast for the sick
woman, others would drop in later, wash the dishes, and put the house
in order; and so by turns and shares, the washing, ironing, and mending
would be done, and by the time the sick woman would be up and around,
she would have no neglected work to discourage her. Also we talked of
how flags were used for day signals and lights by night, in calls for
help.
Our last talk was on Saturday morning between work. She questioned me
in regard to the amount, and location of the property of the Brunners,
then wanted to hear all about my sisters in Sacramento, and wondered
that we did not go to live with them. I explained that Elitha had
written us several times asking us to come, but, knowing that grandma
would be displeased, we had not read her those parts of the letters,
lest she forbid our correspondence entirely. I added that we were very
sorry that she could not like those who were dear to us.
Finally, having exhausted information on several subjects, Mrs. Stein
gave me a searching glance, and after a marked silence, continued: "I
don't wonder that you love grandpa and grandma as much as you tell me,
and it is a pity about these other things that aren't pleasant. Don't
you think it would be better for you to live with your sister, and
grandma could have some real German children to live here? She is old,
and can't help liking her own kind of people best."
I did not have an unkind thought in mind, yet I did confess that I
should like to live well and grow up to be like my mother. In
thoughtless chatter I continued, that more nice people came to visit
grandma and to talk with us before the town filled with strangers, and
before Americans lived in the good old Spanish houses, and before the
new churches and homes were built.
She led me to speak of mother, then wondered at my vivid recollections,
since I had parted from her so young. She was very attentive as I told
how Georgia and I spoke of her when we were by ourselves, and that
friends did not let us forget her. I even cited a recent instance, when
the teacher had invited us, and two other young girls, to go to the
Vallejo pear orchard for all the fruit we wished to eat, and when he
offered the money in payment, the old Spanish gentleman in charge said,
"Pay for three."
"But we are five," said the teacher.
Then the Don blessed himself with the sign of the cross, and pointing
to Georgia and me, replied, "Those two are daughters of a sainted
mother, and are always welcome!"
At noon grandma told me that she and the Steins would be ready to go
down town immediately after dinner, and that I must wash the dishes and
finish baking the bread in the round oven. We parted in best of humor,
and I went to work. The dishes and bread received first attention. Then
I scrubbed the brick floor in the milk-house; swept the store-room and
front yard; gathered the eggs, fed the chickens, and rebuilt the fire
for supper. I fancied grandma would be pleased with all I had
accomplished, and laughed to myself as I saw the three coming home
leaning close to each other in earnest conversation.
To my surprise, the Steins went directly to their own room; and grandma
did not speak, but closed her eyes as she passed me. That was her way,
and I knew that it would be useless to ask what had offended her. So I
took my milk pails, and, wondering, went to the cow corrals. I could
not imagine what had happened, yet felt hurt and uncomfortable.
Returning with the milk, I saw Johnnie playing by the tree, too near
the horse's feet, and warned him. As he moved, grandma stepped forward
and stood in front of me, her face white with rage. I set my buckets
down and standing between them listened as she said in German:
"Oh, false one, thou didst not think this morning that I would so soon
find thee out. Thou wast not smart enough to see that my friend, Mrs.
Stein, was studying thee, so that she could let me know what kind of
children I had around me. And thou, like a snake in the grass, hast
been sticking out thy tongue behind my back. Thou pretendest that thou
art not staying here to get my money and property, yet thou couldst
tell her all I had. Thou wouldst not read all in the letters from thy
fine sisters? Thou wouldst rather stay here until I die and then be
rich and spend it with them!"
She stopped as if to catch her breath, and I could only answer,
"Grandma, I have not done what thou sayest."
She continued: "I have invited people to come here this night, and thou
shalt stand before them and listen while I tell what I have done for
thee, and how thou hast thanked me. Now, go, finish thy work, eat thy
supper, and come when I call thee."
I heard her call, but don't know how I got into the room, nor before
how many I stood. I know that my head throbbed and my feet almost
refused to support my body, as I listened to grandma, who in forceful
language declared that she had taken me, a starveling, and reared me
until I was almost as tall as she herself; that she had loved and
trusted me, and taught me everything I knew, and that I had that day
blackened the home that had sheltered me, wounded the hand that had fed
me, and proved myself unworthy the love that had been showered upon
me. Mrs. Stein helped her through an account of our morning chat,
misconstruing all that had passed between us.
I remained silent until the latter had announced that almost the first
thing that she had noticed was that we children were of a selfish,
jealous disposition, and that Georgia was very cross when her little
Johnnie came home wearing a hat that grandpa had bought him. Then I
turned upon her saying, "Mrs. Stein, you forget that Georgia has not
seen that hat. You know that grandma bought it after Georgia went
away."
She sprang toward me, then turned to grandma, and asked if she was
going to let an underling insult a guest in her house.
I did not wait for the reply. I fled out into the dark and made my way
to the weird old tree-trunk in the back yard. Thence, I could see the
lights from the windows, and at times hear the sound of voices. There,
I could stand in the starlight and look up to the heavens. I had been
there before, but never in such a heartsick and forlorn condition. I
was too overwrought to think, yet had to do something to ease the
tension. I moved around and looked toward Jakie's grave, then returned
to the side of the tree-trunk which had escaped the ravages of fire,
and ran my finger up and down, feeling the holes which the red-headed
woodpecker had bored and filled with acorns.
A flutter in the air aroused me. It was the old white-faced owl leaving
the hollow in the live oak for the night's hunt. I faced about and saw
her mate fly after her. Then in the stillness that followed, I
stretched both arms toward heaven and cried aloud, "O God, I'm all
alone; take care of me!"
The spell was broken. I grew calmer and began to think and to plan. I
pictured Georgia asleep in a pretty house two miles away, wondered how
I could get word to her and what she would say when told that we would
go away together from Sonoma, and not take anything that grandpa or
grandma had given us.
I remembered that of the fund which we had started by hemming new, and
washing soiled handkerchiefs for the miners, there still remained in
her trunk seven dollars and eighty-five cents, and in mine seven
dollars and fifty cents. If this was not enough to take us to
Sacramento, we might get a chance as Sister Leanna had, to work our
way.
I was still leaning against the tree-trunk when the moon began to peep
over the eastern mountains, and I vowed by its rising that before it
came up in its full, Georgia and I should be in Sacramento.
I heard grandma's call from the door, which she opened and quickly
closed, and I knew by experience that I should find a lighted candle on
the table, and that no one would be in the room to say good-night. I
slept little, but when I arose in the morning I was no longer trouble
tossed. I knew what I would say to grandma if she should give me the
chance.
Grandpa, who had come home very late, did not know what had happened,
and he and I breakfasted with the men, and grandma and the Steins came
after we left the room. No one offered to help me that morning, still I
got through my duties before grandma called me to her. She seemed more
hurt than angry, and began by saying:
"On account of thy bad conduct, Mrs. Stein is going to shorten her
stay. She is going to leave on Tuesday, and wants me to go with her.
She says that she has kept back the worst things that thou hast told
about me, but will tell them to me on the road."
Trembling with indignation, I exclaimed, "Oh, grandma, thou hast always
told us that it is wrong to speak of the faults of a guest in the
house, but what dost thou think of one who hath done what Mrs. Stein
hath done? I did say some of the things she told thee, but I did not
say them in that way. I didn't give them that meaning. I didn't utter
one unkind word against thee or grandpa. I have not been false to thee.
To prove it, I promise to stay and take care of everything while thou
goest and hearest what more she hath to tell, but after the
home-coming, I leave. Nothing that thou canst say will make me change
my mind. I am thankful for the home I have had, but will not be a
burden to thee longer. I came to thee poor, and I will go away poor."
The Brunner conveyance was at the door on Tuesday morning when grandma
and her guest came out to begin their journey. Grandpa helped grandma
and the widow on to the back seat. While he was putting Johnnie in
front with the driver, I stepped close to the vehicle, and extended my
hand to grandma, saying, "Good-bye, don't worry about the dairy while
thou art gone, for everything will be attended to until thy return; but
remember--then I go."
On the way back to the house grandpa asked why I did not treat the
widow more friendly, and I answered, "Because I don't believe in her."
To my surprise, he replied, "I don't either, but grandma is like a
little child in her hands."
I felt that I ought to tell him I should soon go away, but I had never
gone to him with home troubles, and knew that it would not be right to
speak of them in grandma's absence; so he quietly went to his duties
and I to mine. Yet I could not help wondering how grandma could leave
me in full charge of her possessions if she believed the stories that
had been told her. I felt so sure that the guilty one would be found
out that it made me light-hearted.
Mrs. Blake came and spent the night with me, and the following morning
helped to get the breakfast and talked over the cleaning that I wished
to do before grandma's return on the coming Saturday morning. But
God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform,
and unseen hands were shaping a different course for me! I had the milk
skimmed, and a long row of clean pans in the sunshine before time to
hurry the dinner for grandpa and the three men. I was tired, for I had
carried most of the milk to the pig troughs after having finished work
which grandma and I had always done together; so I sat down under the
tree to rest and meditate.
My thoughts followed the travellers with many questions, and the wish
that I might hear what Mrs. Stein had to say. I might have overstayed
my time, if the flock of goats had not come up and smelled my hands,
nibbled at the hem of my apron, and tried to chew the cape of my
sun-bonnet. I sprang up and with a shout and clap of my hands,
scattered them, and entered the log kitchen, reclosing the lower
section of the divided door, to keep them from following me within.
I prepared the dinner, and if it lacked the flavor of grandma's
cooking, those who ate it did not tell me. Grandpa lingered a moment to
bestow a meed of praise on my work, then went off to the back corral to
slaughter a beef for the shop. I began clearing the table, and was
turning from it with a vegetable dish in each hand when I caught sight
of the shadow of a tall silk hat in the open space above the closed
half door. Then the hat and its wearer appeared.
Leaning over the edge of the door, he gazed at me standing there as if
I were nailed to the floor. I was speechless with amazement, and it
seemed a long while before he remarked lightly, "You don't seem to know
me."
"Yes, you are Mr. Wilder, my brother-in-law," I stammered. "Where is
Elitha?"
[Illustration: SACRAMENTO CITY IN THE EARLY FIFTIES]
[Illustration: FRONT STREET, SACRAMENTO CITY, 1850]
He informed me that she and their little daughter were at the hotel
in town, where they had arrived about noon, and that she wanted Georgia
and me to be prompt in coming to her at four o'clock. I told him that
we could not do so, because Georgia was at Mrs. Bergwald's, grandma on
a journey beyond Bodego, and I at home in charge of the work.
In surprise he listened, then asked, "But aren't you at all anxious to
see your sister and little niece?"
Most earnestly, I replied that I was. Nevertheless, as grandma was
away, I could not leave the place until after the day's work was done.
Then I enumerated what was before me. He agreed that there was quite
enough to keep me busy, yet insisted that I ought to keep the
appointment for four o'clock. After his departure, I rushed out to
grandpa, told him who had come and gone, and what had passed between
us. He too, regretted the situation, but promised that I should spend
the evening at the hotel.
I fairly flew about my work that afternoon, and my brain was as active
as my hands and feet. I was certain that brother and sister had come
for us, and the absorbing query was, "How did they happen to arrive at
this particular time?" I also feared there was more trouble before me,
and remembered my promise to grandma with twinges of regret.
At half-past four, I was feeding the hens in the yard, and, looking up,
saw a strange carriage approaching. Instantly, I guessed who was in it,
and was at the gate before it stopped. Elitha greeted me kindly, but
not cordially. She asked why I had not come as requested, and then
said, "Go, bring the silver thimble Frances left here, and the coral
necklace I gave you."
In my nervous haste I could not find the thimble, but carried out the
necklace. She next bade me take the seat beside her, thus disclosing
her intention of carrying me on, picking up Georgia and proceeding to
Sacramento. She was annoyed by my answer and disappointed in what she
termed my lack of pride. Calling my attention to my peculiar style of
dress and surroundings, to my stooped shoulders and callous hands, she
bade me think twice before I refused the comfortable home she had to
offer.
When assured that I would gladly go on Saturday, but was unwilling to
leave in grandma's absence, she did not urge further, simply inquired
the way to Georgia, and left me.
I was nursing my disappointment and watching the disappearing carriage,
when Mr. Knipp, the brewer, with his load of empty kegs drew up, and
asked what I was thinking about so hard. It was a relief to see his
jolly, good-natured face, and I told him briefly that our people were
in town and wished to take us home with them. He got down from his
wagon to say confidentially:
"Thou must not leave grandpa and grandma, because the old man is always
kind to thee, and though she may sometimes wag a sharp tongue, she
means well. Be patient, by-and-by thou wilt have a nice property, the
country will have more people for hire, and thou wilt not have so hard
to work."
When I told him that I did not want the property, and that there were
other things I did care for, he continued persuasively:
"Women need not so much learning from books. Grandma would not know how
to scold so grandly if she remembered not so many fine words from
'Wilhelm Tell' and the other books that she knoweth by heart." And he
climbed back and drove off, believing that he had done me a good turn.
To my great satisfaction, Georgia arrived about dark, saying that
Benjamin had brought her and would call for us later to spend the
evening with them. When we reached the hotel, Elitha received us
affectionately, and did not refer to the disappointments of the
afternoon. The time was given up to talk about plans for our future,
and that night when we two crept into bed, I felt that I had been eased
of a heavy burden, for Benjamin was willing to await grandma's return.
He also told us that early next morning he would go to Santa Rosa, the
county seat, and apply to be made our guardian in place of Hiram
Miller, and would also satisfy any claim grandma might have to us, or
against us, adding that we need not take anything away with us, except
our keepsakes.