Tom Clark and His Wife Part 3

Clark, a well-known, honest, sober man, and a neighbor as well.

Mr. Clark's injuries are altogether internal, from the shock of falling, otherwise he is almost unscathed. His pains inwardly are very great, besides which he is nearly distracted and insane from the loss of his wife and horse, but mainly for the former. It seems that they had been riding out on a visit to a sick friend, and the horse had slipped on the wet clay, had taken fright, and leaped the bank, just as Clark was hurled from the buggy, and landed where Ellet found him. The horse, carriage, and the precious freight, instantly plunged headlong down through four hundred feet of empty air.

"'We learn that the couple were most devotedly attached to each other, as is notorious from the fact, among others, that whenever they met, after a day's absence, and no matter where, nor in what company, they invariably embraced and kissed each other, in the rich, deep fullness of their impa.s.sioned and exhaustless conjugal love. Poor Clark's loss is irreparable.

His wife had been twice married, but her affection for her first husband was but as a shallow brook compared to the deep, broad ocean of love for him who now mourns, most bitterly mourns, her untimely fate!'

"There! What d'ye think o' that, my lady?--what d'ye think o' that, my man? That's a newspaper report, the same that Tom Clark carried in his pocket, and read so often in his dream. Singular, isn't it, that the ruling pa.s.sion triumphs, especially Reporters'--even in Death or Dream-land.

"At the end of two days Mr. Clark recovered sufficiently to go to the foot of the cliff, and when there his first work was to carefully bury what was left of his wife--and her first husband's portrait at the same time--for he had placed that canvas across the backs of two chairs, and amused himself by jumping through it--like a sensible man.

"There is--do you know it?--an almost uncontrollable fascination in Danger. Have you never been seized with the desire to throw yourself down some yawning chasm, into some abyss, over into the ready jaws of a shark, to handle a tiger, play with a rattlesnake, jump into a foundery furnace, write a book, edit a paper, or some other such equally wise and sensible thing? Well, I know many who have thus been tempted--and to their ruin. Human nature always has a morbid streak, and that is one of them, as is also the horrible attraction to an execution--to visit the scene of a homicide or a conflagration--especially if a few people have been burnt up--and the more the stronger the curiosity; or to look at the spot where a score or two of Pat-landers have been mumified by the weakness of walls--and contractors' consciences. With what strange interest we read how the monarch of some distant lovely isle dined with his cabinet, off _Potage aux tet de missionaire_--how they banqueted on delicate slices of boiled evangelist, all of which _viandes_ were unwillingly supplied by the Rev. Jonadab Convert-'em-all, who had a call that way to supply the bread of life, not slices of cold missionary--and did both! So with Tom Clark. One would have thought that the last scene he would willingly have looked upon, would have been the bottom of the ravine. Not a bit of it. An uncontrollable desire seized him, and for his life he could not keep away from the foot of the cliff. He went there, and day by day searched for every vestige of the poor woman, whose heart, and head likewise, he at last had succeeded in breaking into very small fragments. These relics he buried as he found them, yet still could not forsake his daily haunt. Of course, for a time the people observed his action, attributed it to grief and love, forbore to watch or disturb, and finally cared nothing about the matter whatever.

Such things are nothing in California. Well was it for Clark that it was so--that they regarded him as mildly insane, and let his vagaries have full swing, for it gave him ample time and opportunity to fully improve one of the most astounding pieces of good luck that ever befell a human being since the year One.

"It fell out upon a certain day, that, after attending to other duties, Tom Clark, as usual, wound his way, by a zig-zag and circuitous path, to the foot of the hill, and took his accustomed seat near by the rock where it was evident Mrs. C. had landed--the precise spot where her flight had been so rudely checked. There he sat for a while, like Volney, in deep speculative reverie and meditation--not upon the ruins of Empires, but upon those of his horse, his buggy, and his wife.

Suddenly he started to his feet, for a very strange fancy had struck upon his brain. I cannot tell the precise spot of its impingement, but it hit him hard. He acted on the idea instantly, and forthwith resolved to dig up all the soil thereabouts, that had perchance drank a single drop of her blood. It was not conscience that was at work, it was destiny. This soil, that had been imbrued with the blood of the horse and buggy--no, the woman, I mean--he resolved to bury out of sight of man and brute, and sun and moon, and little peeping stars; for an instinct told him that the gore-stained soil could not be an acceptable spectacle to anything on earth, upon the velvet air, or in the blue heaven above it; and so he scratched up the mould and buried it out of sight, in a rift hard by, between two mighty rocks, that the earthquake had split asunder a million years before.

"And so he threw it in, and then tried to screen it from the sun with leaves and gra.s.s, great stones and logs of wood; after which he again sat down upon the rock to rest.

"Presently he arose to go, when, as he did so, a gleam of suns.h.i.+ne flashed back upon his eyes from a minute spicul of, he knew not what.

He stooped; picked up the object, and found, to his utter astonishment, that he held in his hand a lump of gold, solid gold--an abraded, glittering lump of actual, s.h.i.+ning gold.

"Tom Clark nearly fainted! The lump weighed not less than a pound. Its sides had been scratched by him as he dug away the earth at the foot of the cliff where his wife had landed, after a brief flight through four hundred feet of empty air--a profitable journey for him--but not for her, nor the horse, nor buggy!

"For a minute Clark stood still, utterly bewildered, and wiping the great round beads of sweat from off his brow. He wept at every pore. But it was for a minute only: in the next he was madly, wildly digging with the trowel he always carried with him, for Tom was Herb-Doctor in general for the region roundabout, and was great at the root and herb business, therefore went prepared to dig them wherever chance disclosed them.

"Five long hours did he labor like a Hercules, in the soft mould, in the crevices of the rocks--everywhere--and with mad energy, with frantic zeal. Five long hours did he ply that trowel with all the force that the hope of sudden wealth inspired, and then, exhausted, spent, he sank prostrate on the ground, his head resting on a ma.s.s of yellow gold--gold not in dust, or flecks, or scales, but in great and ma.s.sy lumps and wedges, each one large enough for a poor man's making.

"That morning Thomas Clark's worldly wealth, all told, could have been bought thrice over for any five of the pieces then beneath his head, and there were scores of them. His brain reeled with the tremendous excitement. He had struck the richest 'Lead' ever struck by mortal man on the surface of the planet, for he had already collected more than he could lift, and he was a very strong and powerful man. There was enough to fill a two-peck measure, packed and piled as close and high as it could be; and yet he had just begun. Ah, Heaven, it was too much!

"Alas, poor Tom! poor, doubly poor, with all thy sudden, boundless wealth! Thou art even poorer than Valmondi, who, the legends say, gave his soul to the service of the foul fiend--for he, like thee, had riches inexhaustible; but, unlike Valmondi, and the higher Brethren of the Rosie Cross, thou hast not the priceless secret of Perpetual youth. Thou wilt grow old, Tom Clark--grow old, and sick, and grey hairs and wrinkles will overtake thee. And see! yonder is an open grave, and it yearns for thee, Tom Clark, it yearns for thee! And there's Blood upon thy hands, Tom Clark, red gouts of Blood--and gold cannot wash it off.

"Valmondi repented, and died a beggar, but thy heart is cased in golden armor, and the shafts of Mercy may not reach its case, and wake thee up to better deeds, and high and lofty daring for the world and for thy fellow-men. Gold! Ah, Tom, Tom, thou hadst better have been a humble Rosicrucian--better than I, for weakness has been mine. It is better to labor hard with brain and tongue and hands, for mere food and raiment, than be loaded down with riches, that bear many a man earthward, and fill untimely graves! It is better to live on bread, and earn it, than to be a millionaire. Better to have heaped up wealth of Goodness, than many bars of Gold. Poor Tom! Rich you are in what self-seeking men call wealth; but poor, ah, how poor! in the better having, which whetteth the appet.i.te for knowledge, and its fruitage, Wisdom, and which sendeth man, at night, to Happy Dream land, upon the viewless pinions of sweet and balmy Sleep! Every dollar _above_ labor brings ten thousand evils in its train.

"Well, night was close at hand, and Tom buried his G.o.d, and went home.

Home, did I say? Not so. He went to his bed, to sleep, and in that sleep he dreamed that it was raining double eagles, while he held his hat beneath the spout. But he was not home, for home is where the heart is, and we have seen the locality of Clark's.

"For days, weeks, months, he still worked at his 'Lead,' studiously keeping his own counsel, and managing the affair, from first to last, with the most consummate tact; so that no one even suspected that the richest man in California, and on the entire continent, was Mr. Thomas W. By degrees he conveyed to, and had vast sums coined at the mint, as agent for some mining companies. A few hogsheads he buried here and there, and sprinkled some dozens of barrels elsewhere about the ground.

This he continued to do until at last even _his_ appet.i.te for gold was doubly, _triply_ glutted; and then he sprung the secret, sold his claim for three millions, cash in hand, and forthwith moved, and set up an establishment close under Telegraph Hill, in the best locality in all Santa Blarneeo.

"And now everybody and his wife bowed to Mr. Thomas W., and did homage to--his money. Curious, isn't it, how long some G.o.ds _will_ live? About three thousand years ago a man of Israel fas.h.i.+oned one out of borrowed jewelry, fas.h.i.+oned it in the form of a _veal_, after which he proclaimed it, and all the human calves fell down straightway, and a good many are still bent on wors.h.i.+pping at the self-same shrine. That calf has retained to this day '_eleven-tenths_' of earth's most zealous adoration! So now did men reverence Clark's money. Women smiled upon him, ambitious spinsters ogled, and hopeful maidens set their caps to enthrall him. He could carry any election, gave tone to the Money Market, reigned supreme and undisputed king on ''Change,' and people took him for a happy man; and so he was, as long as daylight lasted, and he was steadily employed; but, somehow or other, his nights were devilishly unpleasant! He could not rest well, for in the silence of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon man, an unsheeted ghost pa.s.sed before his face, bearing a most d.a.m.nably correct similitude to a former female acquaintance of his, now, alas! deceased; and not unfrequently, as he hurried along the streets, did he encounter persons who bore surprising and unmistakable resemblances to the 'dear departed.'

"'Black clouds come up, like sinful visions, To distract the souls of solitary men.'

"Was Tom Clark mistaken? Was it Fancy? Was it Fear?... One night he went to a theatre, but left it in a hurry, when the actor, who was playing Macbeth, looked straight into his private box and said:

"'The times have been that, when the brains were out The man would die--and there an end; But _now_ they rise again, with twenty mortal murders On their crowns, to push us from our seats!'

And the words pushed Clark out of the house, deadly sick--fearfully pale; for the avenging furies, roused at last, were at that very moment las.h.i.+ng his guilty soul to madness--and Shakspeare's lines, like double-edged daggers, went plunging, cutting, leaping, flying through every vault and cavern of his spirit. He rushed from the place, reached his house, and now: 'The bowl, the bowl! Wine, give me wine, ruby wine.'

They gave it, and it failed! Stronger drink, much stronger, now became his refuge, and in stupefying his brain he stultified his conscience.

His torture was not to last forever, for by dint of debauchery his sensitive soul went to sleep, and the brute man took the ascendant.

Conscience slept profoundly. His heart grew case-hardened, cold and callous as an ice-berg. He married a Voice, and a Figure, as heartless as himself; became a politician--which completely finished him; but still, several handsome donations to a fas.h.i.+onable church--just think of it!--had the effect of procuring him the reputation of sanct.i.ty, which lie he, by dint of repet.i.tion, at last prevailed upon himself to believe. Thus we leave him for awhile, and return to the chamber in which was the little window whose upper sash was down.

PART IV.

THE DREAM OF BETSEY CLARK.

"Madame, awake, it will be remembered, had come to the conclusion to settle Tom's coffee--and hash, at the same time, with a dose or two of ratsbane, or some similar delicate condiment; and now, in her dream, she thought all her plans were so well and surely made as to defy detection, and laugh outright at failure.

"In California there is a small but very troublesome rodent known to Science as '_Pseudo-stoma bursarius_,' and to the vulgar world as 'gopher'--a sort of burrowing rat, nearly as mischievous and quite as wicked, for the little wretches have a settled and special penchant for boring holes in the ground, particularly in the vicinity of fruit trees.

My friend, Mr. Rumford, who has a very fine orchard in Fruit Vale, Contra Costa, just across the bay from Santa Blarneeo, recently a.s.sured me that the rascals make it a point to destroy young trees, not only without compunction, but even without saying, 'By your leave.' Now it so happened that Clark's place was overstocked with the pestilent animals alluded to, and the proprietors had, time and again, threatened the whole race with extermination, by means of a.r.s.enic, phosphor-paste, or some other effective poison, but had never carried the resolution into practice. This fact was seized on by Mrs. Clark, as a capital _point d'appui_. Accordingly, with a dull hand-saw, the lady hacked a few dozen of the very choicest young trees, in such a way as to make them look like unmistakable gopher-work, thus subjecting the brutes to charges whereof they were as innocent as _two_ unborn babes. Gophers and the Devil have to answer for a great deal that properly belong to other parties. Her act was a grand stroke of policy. She meant that Tom should voluntarily get the poison, which she intended he--not the gophers--should take at the very earliest possible opportunity. _She_ didn't mean to purchase a.r.s.enic--oh, no, she knew too much for _that_!

The ravage was speedily discovered by Clark. He raved, stamped his foot in his wrath, turned round on his heel, pulled his cap over his eyes, e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, 'Dod dern 'em!' started for the city, and that very night returned, bearer of six bits' worth of the strongest and deadliest kind of poison--quite as deadly, almost as strong, as that which stupid fools drink in corner stores at six cents a gla.s.s.

"That night about half the poison was mixed and set. Twelve hours thereafter there was great tribulation and mourning in Gopherdom; for scores of the little gentry ate of it, liked the flavor, tried a little more--got thirsty--they drank freely (most fools do!), felt uncomfortable, got angry, swelled--with indignation and poisoned meal!

and not a few of them immediately (to quote Mr. Clark), 'failed in business; that is to say, they burst--burst all to thunder! Alas, poor rodents!

"Next morning Tom's coffee was particularly good. Betsey fairly surpa.s.sed herself, in fact she came it rather too strong. About ten o'clock he felt thirsty, and inclined toward cold water; for the weather was hot, and so were his 'coppers,' to quote the Ancient Mariner. He would have taken much water, only that Betsey dissuaded him, and said: 'It was just like him, to go and get sick by drinking ever so much cold water! Why didn't he take switchel, or, what was much better, cold coffee, with plenty of milk in it--and sugar, of course;' and so he (Tom) tried her prescription, liked it, took a little more, and that night followed the Gophers!

"Three days afterwards a kindly neighbor handed Mrs. Clark a fresh copy of the 'Santa Blarneeo Looking Gla.s.s,' wherein she read, with tearful eyes, the following true and veracious account of

"'A MOST DISTRESSING AND FATAL SUICIDE!

"'We regret to announce the fearful suicide, while laboring under a fit of temporary insanity, caused by the bite of a gopher, of Mr. Thomas W. Clark. It appears, that in order to destroy the vermin, he purchased some a.r.s.enic, gave some to the animals, got bitten by them, ran stark mad in consequence, and then swallowed the balance (about a pound) himself. His unfortunate wife now lies at the point of death, by reason of the dreadful shock. She is utterly distracted by the distressing and heart-rending event, which is all the more poignant from the fact, that probably no married pair that ever lived were more ardently and devotedly attached than were they.

The coroner and a picked jury of twelve men sat for two hours in consultation, after which they found a verdict of "Death by his own act, while insane from the bite of a gopher!"'

"In due time the body of the victim who had been killed so exceedingly dead, by cruel, cold poison--(if it had been warm he might have stood it, but cold!)--was consigned to the grave--and forgetfulness at the same time; and after a brief season of mourning, materially a.s.sisted before company by a peeled onion (one of the rankest kind) in a handkerchief, applied to the eyes--my Lady Gay, our disconsolate relict--fair, forty, and somewhat fat--gave tokens, by change of dress, that she was once more in the market matrimonial,

"'With her tacks and sheets, and her bowlines, too, And colors flying--red, white, and blue,'

She was once more ready to dare and do for husband number three. To do her justice, she _was_ good-looking--all women are, when they choose to be. Her face was fair and intelligent; she possessed a voluptuous degree of what Monsieur de Fillagre calls 'om-bong-pong' (_embonpoint_), could sing--at a mark; and if not O fat! was _au fait_--a little of both, perhaps--on the light, fantastic toe--of the California Order; while as an invaluable addition, there was no woman on the coast who could equal her in getting up either linen, a dinner, or a quarrel. She excelled all rivals in the really divine art of cooking a husband--beefsteak, I mean.

Her pastry and bread were excellent, her tea was fine, and her coffee was all that man could wish, and more so, for it was good--perfectly killing--as we have seen.

"Betsey took matters coolly; was in no apparent hurry, for she had resolved to shoot only at high game, and, accordingly, after a time, deigned to smile upon the Reverend Doctor Dryasdust, the honored head of the new sect recently sprung up in the land, and which was known as the 'Wotcher Kawlums,' and who rejoiced in repudiating everything over five years old in the shape of doctrine, tenet and discipline, but who went in strongly for Progress and pantaloons--for women; for Honduras and the _naked_ truth; for Socialism and sugar estates; mahogany and horticulture--a patent sort.

"Now, the pastor of this promising body felt that it was not good for man to be alone, and therefore cast about for a rib whereof to have fas.h.i.+oned a help meet unto him. He saw the widow, fell in love, proposed, was accepted, and in due time she became the wife of the Newlight preacher. I like the old lights best; she didn't.

"Betsey achieved a 'position'--a thing for which her s.e.x almost proverbially sacrifice all they have on earth--happiness, health, long life, usefulness. She enjoyed herself quite well, and only two things disturbed her peace of mind: First, she could not bear the smell or sight of coffee, which drink her new lord was strongly addicted to, and insisted on her making for him with her own hands; thereby inflicting daily tortures upon her, compared to which all physical pain was pleasure. The second disturbing cause was this: by a very strange fatality their house was overrun with rats, and their garden fairly swarmed with gophers--which, with infernal malice and pertinacity, became quite tame, semi-domesticated, and intruded themselves upon her notice a dozen times a day, thereby fetching up from memory's storehouse fearful reminiscences of other days--horrible recollections of the gophers of the long-agone. It is hard to be weaned of your fears; nevertheless, after a while she conquered herself, brazened down her horrors, weighed herself, applied a false logic, tried herself by it, and returned a clear verdict of 'Justifiable all the way,' and concluded that her present happiness, what there was of it, fairly outweighed the crime by which it had been reached. She was materially justified in her conclusions by an accidental development of character on the part of her present husband, who had, in a fit of petulance, unfolded a leaf from the inner volume of the soul within.

"Not caring to recapitulate the whole story (for reticence is sometimes wisdom), I will merely observe that at the end of a somewhat heated controversy, her husband had smashed a mirror, with one of Webster's quarto dictionaries, and roundly declared that he 'preached for pay.

Hang it, Madame, the salary's the thing!--you _Bet_! How can souls be saved without a salary? That's a plain question. They are not now, at all events, whatever may have been the case with the Old Lights, who had a great deal more zeal than discretion--more fools they! It can't be done in these days of high prices and costly raiment--with the obligation of feeding well and dressing better. What's life without money? What's talent without bra.s.s? What's genius without gold? They won't pay! No, no, Madame; in the game of life, diamonds are always trumps, and hearts are bound to lose. What's the result?

"'Listen! Five years ago, up in the mountains, I thought I had a call. I did, and went--and preached the new doctrines of Do-as-you-feel-a-mind-to-provided-you-don't-get-catched-at-it-ism--the regular out and out All-Right-ite-provided-you-don't-tread-on-my-corns religion. Well, I preached it, had large houses, converted many--and nearly starved! What's the consequence? Why, I left, and now hear only the loudest kind of calls! What's the loudest call? Why, the biggest salary! that's what's the matter! Do you see the point--the place where the laugh comes in? It's as plain as A B C to me, or any other man! and all the rest is leather and prunella--stuff, fudge--Hum!'

"Honest, out-spoken Dryasdust! How many of the world's teachers sail in the same boat! His eloquence--not all false, perhaps--was not lost upon his wife. The Dryasdusts are not all dead; there's a few more left of the same sort--only they keep their own counsel, even from their wives.

New Lights!