Mrs. Skaggs's Husbands Page #10

"Mrs. Skaggs's Husbands" is a humorous and insightful short story by Bret Harte, set in the American West during the late 19th century. The narrative follows Mrs. Skaggs, a resilient and resourceful woman who has had multiple husbands, each with their own unique quirks and characteristics. The story explores themes of gender roles, love, and the complexity of relationships, all while offering a satirical look at frontier life. Harte's deft storytelling and vibrant characters make this tale a delightful reflection on the challenges and triumphs of marriage in a rugged landscape.

• Short story

								

months longer than any day in my life,--days, Tommy, when it was a
toss-up whether I should kill her or she me. But thar, I'm done. You are
a young man, Tommy, and I ain't goin' to tell things thet, old as I am,
three years ago I couldn't have believed."

When at last, with his grim face turned toward the window, he sat
silently with his clinched hands on his knees before him, Islington
asked where his wife was now.

"Ask me no more, my boy,--no more. I've said my say." With a gesture as
of throwing down a pair of reins before him, he rose, and walked to the
window.

"You kin understand, Tommy, why a little trip around the world 'ud do me
good. Ef you can't go with me, well and good. But go I must."

"Not before luncheon, I hope," said a very sweet voice, as Blanche
Masterman suddenly stood before them. "Father would never forgive me if
in his absence I permitted one of Mr. Islington's friends to go in this
way. You will stay, won't you? Do! And you will give me your arm now;
and when Mr. Islington has done staring, he will follow us into the
dining-room and introduce you."

"I have quite fallen in love with your friend," said Miss Blanche, as
they stood in the drawing-room looking at the figure of Bill, strolling,
with his short pipe in his mouth, through the distant shrubbery. "He
asks very queer questions, though. He wanted to know my mother's maiden
name."

"He is an honest fellow," said Islington, gravely.

"You are very much subdued. You don't thank me, I dare say, for keeping
you and your friend here; but you couldn't go, you know, until father
returned."

Islington smiled, but not very gayly.

"And then I think it much better for us to part here under these
frescos, don't you? Good by."

She extended her long, slim hand.

"Out in the sunlight there, when my eyes were red, you were very anxious
to look at me," she added, in a dangerous voice.

Islington raised his sad eyes to hers. Something glittering upon her own
sweet lashes trembled and fell.

"Blanche!"

She was rosy enough now, and would have withdrawn her hand, but
Islington detained it. She was not quite certain but that her waist
was also in jeopardy. Yet she could not help saying, "Are you sure that
there isn't anything in the way of a young woman that would keep you?"

"Blanche!" said Islington in reproachful horror.

"If gentlemen will roar out their secrets before an open window, with
a young woman lying on a sofa on the veranda, reading a stupid French
novel, they must not be surprised if she gives more attention to them
than her book."

"Then you know all, Blanche?"

"I know," said Blanche, "let's see--I know the partiklar style
of--ahem!--fool you was, and expected no better. Good by." And, gliding
like a lovely and innocent milk snake out of his grasp, she slipped
away.

To the pleasant ripple of waves, the sound of music and light voices,
the yellow midsummer moon again rose over Greyport. It looked upon
formless masses of rock and shrubbery, wide spaces of lawn and beach,
and a shimmering expanse of water. It singled out particular objects,--a
white sail in shore, a crystal globe upon the lawn, and flashed upon
something held between the teeth of a crouching figure scaling the low
wall of Cliffwood Lodge. Then, as a man and woman passed out from under
the shadows of the foliage into the open moonlight of the garden path,
the figure leaped from the wall, and stood erect and waiting in the
shadow.

It was the figure of an old man, with rolling eyes, his trembling hand
grasping a long, keen knife,--a figure more pitiable than pitiless, more
pathetic than terrible. But the next moment the knife was stricken from
his hand, and he struggled in the firm grasp of another figure that
apparently sprang from the wall beside him.

"D--n you, Masterman!" cried the old man, hoarsely; "give me fair play,
and I'll kill you yet!"

"Which my name is Yuba Bill," said Bill, quietly, "and it's time this
d--n fooling was stopped."

The old man glared in Bill's face savagely. "I know you. You're one
of Masterman's friends,--d--n you,--let me go till I cut his heart
out,--let me go! Where is my Mary?--where is my wife?--there she is!
there!--there!--there! Mary!" He would have screamed, but Bill placed
his powerful hand upon his mouth, as he turned in the direction of the
old man's glance. Distinct in the moonlight the figures of Islington and
Blanche, arm in arm, stood out upon the garden path.

"Give me my wife!" muttered the old man hoarsely, between Bill's
fingers. "Where is she?"

A sudden fury passed over Yuba Bill's face. "Where is your wife?" he
echoed, pressing the old man back against the garden wall, and holding
him there as in a vice. "Where is your wife?" he repeated, thrusting his
grim sardonic jaw and savage eyes into the old man's frightened face.
"Where is Jack Adam's wife? Where is MY wife? Where is the she-devil
that drove one man mad, that sent another to hell by his own hand, that
eternally broke and ruined me? Where! Where! Do you ask where? In
jail in Sacramento,--in jail, do you hear?--in jail for murder,
Johnson,--murder!"

The old man gasped, stiffened, and then, relaxing, suddenly slipped,
a mere inanimate mass, at Yuba Bill's feet. With a sudden revulsion of
feeling, Yuba Bill dropped at his side, and, lifting him tenderly in
his arms, whispered, "Look up, old man, Johnson! look up, for
God's sake!--it's me,--Yuba Bill! and yonder is your daughter,
and--Tommy!--don't you know--Tommy, little Tommy Islington?"

Johnson's eyes slowly opened. He whispered, "Tommy! yes, Tommy! Sit by
me, Tommy. But don't sit so near the bank. Don't you see how the river
is rising and beckoning to me,--hissing, and boilin' over the rocks?
It's gittin higher!--hold me, Tommy,--hold me, and don't let me go yet.
We'll live to cut his heart out, Tommy,--we'll live--we'll--" His head
sank, and the rushing river, invisible to all eyes save his, leaped
toward him out of the darkness, and bore him away, no longer to the
darkness, but through it to the distant, peaceful shining sea.
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