Mrs. Skaggs's Husbands Page #7

"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

								

power. Think, with your experiences and our credulity, what stories you
MIGHT tell! And you are going to walk? Good night, then." A slim, gloved
hand was frankly extended from the window, and the next moment the
carriage rolled away.

"Isn't Islington throwing away a chance there?" said Captain Merwin, on
the veranda.

"Perhaps he couldn't stand my lovely aunt's superadded presence. But
then, he's the guest of Blanche's father, and I dare say they see enough
of each other as it is."

"But isn't it a rather dangerous situation?"

"For him, perhaps; although he's awfully old, and very queer. For
her, with an experience that takes in all the available men in both
hemispheres, ending with Nugat over there, I should say a man more or
less wouldn't affect her much, anyway. Of course," he laughed, "these
are the accents of bitterness. But that was last year."

Perhaps Islington did not overhear the speaker; perhaps, if he did, the
criticism was not new. He turned carelessly away, and sauntered out
on the road to the sea. Thence he strolled along the sands toward the
cliffs, where, meeting an impediment in the shape of a garden wall, he
leaped it with a certain agile, boyish ease and experience, and struck
across an open lawn toward the rocks again. The best society of Greyport
were not early risers, and the spectacle of a trespasser in an evening
dress excited only the criticism of grooms hanging about the stables, or
cleanly housemaids on the broad verandas that in Greyport architecture
dutifully gave upon the sea. Only once, as he entered the boundaries of
Cliffwood Lodge, the famous seat of Renwyck Masterman, was he aware of
suspicious scrutiny; but a slouching figure that vanished quickly in the
lodge offered no opposition to his progress. Avoiding the pathway to
the lodge, Islington kept along the rocks until, reaching a little
promontory and rustic pavilion, he sat down and gazed upon the sea.

And presently an infinite peace stole upon him. Except where the waves
lapped lazily the crags below, the vast expanse beyond seemed unbroken
by ripple, heaving only in broad ponderable sheets, and rhythmically, as
if still in sleep. The air was filled with a luminous haze that caught
and held the direct sunbeams. In the deep calm that lay upon the sea, it
seemed to Islington that all the tenderness of culture, magic of wealth,
and spell of refinement that for years had wrought upon that favored
shore had extended its gracious influence even here. What a pampered and
caressed old ocean it was; cajoled, flattered, and feted where it lay!
An odd recollection of the turbid Stanislaus hurrying by the ascetic
pines, of the grim outlines of Deadwood Hill, swam before his eyes,
and made the yellow green of the velvet lawn and graceful foliage seem
almost tropical by contrast. And, looking up, a few yards distant he
beheld a tall slip of a girl gazing upon the sea,--Blanche Masterman.

She had plucked somewhere a large fan-shaped leaf, which she held
parasol-wise, shading the blond masses of her hair, and hiding her gray
eyes. She had changed her festal dress, with its amplitude of flounce
and train, for a closely fitting half-antique habit whose scant outlines
would have been trying to limbs less shapely, but which prettily
accented the graceful curves and sweeping lines of this Greyport
goddess. As Islington rose, she came toward him with a frankly
outstretched hand and unconstrained manner. Had she observed him first?
I don't know.

They sat down together on a rustic seat, Miss Blanche facing the sea,
and shading her eyes with the leaf.

"I don't really know how long I have been sitting here," said Islington,
"or whether I have not been actually asleep and dreaming. It seemed too
lovely a morning to go to bed. But you?"

From behind the leaf, it appeared that Miss Blanche, on retiring, had
been pursued by a hideous winged bug which defied the efforts of herself
and maid to dislodge. Odin, the Spitz dog, had insisted upon scratching
at the door. And it made her eyes red to sleep in the morning. And she
had an early call to make. And the sea looked lovely.

"I'm glad to find you here, whatever be the cause," said Islington, with
his old directness. "To-day, as you know, is my last day in Greyport,
and it is much pleasanter to say good by under this blue sky than even
beneath your father's wonderful frescos yonder. I want to remember you,
too, as part of this pleasant prospect which belongs to us all, rather
than recall you in anybody's particular setting."

"I know," said Blanche, with equal directness, "that houses are one of
the defects of our civilization; but I don't think I ever heard the idea
as elegantly expressed before. Where do you go?"

"I don't know yet. I have several plans. I may go to South America and
become president of one of the republics,--I am not particular which. I
am rich, but in that part of America which lies outside of Greyport it
is necessary for every man to have some work. My friends think I
should have some great aim in life, with a capital A. But I was born a
vagabond, and a vagabond I shall probably die."

"I don't know anybody in South America," said Blanche, languidly. "There
were two girls here last season, but they didn't wear stays in the
house, and their white frocks never were properly done up. If you go to
South America, you must write to me."

"I will. Can you tell me the name of this flower which I found in your
greenhouse. It looks much like a California blossom."

"Perhaps it is. Father bought it of a half-crazy old man who came here
one day. Do you know him?"

Islington laughed. "I am afraid not. But let me present this in a less
business-like fashion."

"Thank you. Remind me to give you one in return before you go,--or will
you choose yourself?"

They had both risen as by a common instinct.

"Good by."

The cool flower-like hand lay in his for an instant.

"Will you oblige me by putting aside that leaf a moment before I go?"

"But my eyes are red, and I look like a perfect fright."

Yet, after a long pause, the leaf fluttered down, and a pair of very
beautiful but withal very clear and critical eyes met his. Islington was
constrained to look away. When he turned again, she was gone.

"Mister Hislington,--sir!"

It was Chalker, the English groom, out of breath with running.

"Seein' you alone, sir,--beg your pardon, sir,--but there's a person--"

"A person! what the devil do you mean? Speak English--no, damn it, I
mean don't," said Islington, snappishly.

"I sed a person, sir. Beg pardon--no offence--but not a gent, sir. In
the lib'ry."

A little amused even through the utter dissatisfaction with himself
and vague loneliness that had suddenly come upon him, Islington, as he
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