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 assured 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 arsenic, 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 arsenic—oh, no, she knew too much for that! The ravage was speedily discovered by Clark. He raved, stamped his foot in his wrath, turned around on his heel, pulled his cap over his eyes, ejaculated, ‘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 glass. 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!’ [Fruitvale, now a neighborhood in Oakland, had many orchards in the mid 19thc and Isaac B. Rumford of Brooklyn in neighboring Alameda County was listed in the 1860 census with Nursery as his occupation.]
“Next morning Tom’s coffee was particularly good. Betsey fairly surpassed 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 Glass,’ 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 arsenic, 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 heartrending 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!”
“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—?
“‘Who knoweth the spirit of a man that it goeth upward; or of a beast that it goeth downward?’ The Spiritualists?— a pack of fanatics! I don’t believe in ghosts—but she shuddered as she gave utterance to the words, and her hair crawled upon her head as if touched with spectral fingers. No man disbelieves his immortality—the thing is impossible, per se; for although he may differ with that class of people who pretend to very extensive ghostly acquaintanceship and commerce, as many do—yet he doubtless always whistles as he passes a graveyard in the night! I certainly do! Why? Because I disbelieve in ghosts—of course.
“In spite of Reason, erring Reason’s spite, One truth is clear, whatever is is right.” [From “An Essay on Man,” a poem written 1733-34 by Alexander Pope, slightly misquoted by Randolph.]
“Tom was to die. The conditions that surrounded him were just such as had determined the results that followed. I was but the proxy of eternal Fate. Am I to blame? Certainly not, for I acted in precise accordance with the conditions that surrounded me—that made me do as I did— tempted me beyond my strength; and, for that reason, the crime, if crime it be, was a foregone conclusion from the foundation of the world! Hereafter?’
“Come from the grave tomorrow with that story, And I may take some softer path to glory. [From “Parrhasius and the Captive” by Nathaniel Parker Willis in his 1846 collected works.]
“‘Parrhasius was a true philosopher—or Willis. Pshaw—I guess I’ll take another drop of Angelica!’
“We are still in the little chamber, near the window, the little window at the foot of the bed whose upper sash was down.”