A SHORT RIDE AND A LONG WALK.
Two days passed without any event worthy of record. Every thing at the ranche went on quietly enough, and a stranger happening there might have believed it an orderly and well regulated family as any that could be found in the State.
The two men held long conversations in private. Even Sybil was not made acquainted with their cause; and although she was too acute not to have perceived that there was a secret from which she was excluded, she betrayed neither interest nor curiosity, evidently quite willing to allow affairs to take their own course, and await the pleasure of her husband and his confederate to hear a disclosure of the scheme which they might be revolving in their minds.
On the third day the two made preparations to go up to the mines. Yates owned a claim which he did not work himself, for labor was not a thing he actually enjoyed, but he had hired men to work it, being able, even in that rage for gold which had taken possession of all, to find men who preferred secure daily wages to the uncertainty of working upon their own account.
Yates was in the habit of making weekly visits to the place, so that Sybil received the information of the departure as a matter of course, and supper was prepared before sunset, that they might make their journey during the cool of the evening.
The mules were brought out, and Sybil followed her husband and his friend out on to the veranda to see them mount and ride away.
"You will have a beautiful night," she said. "The wind blows cool and refreshing."
"You had better ride a little way with us, Mrs. Yates," said Dickinson.
"I would, but I have a headache," she answered, sweetly.
"Now, why can't you be honest and say you are glad to see us start?" returned her husband.
"Because I never tell stories," she replied, with her pleasant laugh; "I was always taught to consider it wicked."
"What heavenly principles!" sneered Yates. "I declare, Sybil, you are too good for this world."
"Well," exclaimed Tom, "she's needed in it, anyhow! Smart, handsome women are too scarce for her to be spared."
Sybil swept him a courtesy, and Yates laughed outright.
"Tom waxes gallant," said he. "You ought to be grateful, Syb, for his compliments. He isn't given to flattering you women, I can tell you."
"I am very grateful," she replied, giving Tom one of her flashing glances. "Admiration is as rare a thing in this region as Mr. Dickinson considers bright women."
Tom was quite abashed; like many another bad man, he was never at ease in the presence of a well-bred woman—and that Sybil was a lady no one could have denied; it was perceptible in every word and movement.
Yates had to go through his usual routine of maledictions upon his servants and mules; then he mounted his own particular beast, blew a kiss to Sybil, and called out:
"Come, Tom, are you going to stand all night flirting with my wife, I should like to know?"
"What abominable things you do say!" exclaimed Tom, coloring like a girl, and making all haste to get on to his mule, by way of covering his confusion.
"Oh, Mr. Dickinson," said Sybil, "I would not have believed you so ungallant!"
"As how?" questioned Tom.
"You said that it was an abominable thing to admire me. Really, I am astonished!"
"That wasn't what I meant," he replied. "But you know I never can say what I want to, I'm such a stupid fool of a fellow—always was, among women folks."
"There, Tom, that will do! You have got out of the scrape beautifully," said Yates, lending his friend's mule a cut with his black whip. "You have danced attendance on the Graces long enough for one day."
The mule started off with Dickinson, at a sharp canter, and deprived him of an opportunity to reply even if he had wished it. Yates gathered up his reins, nodded to Sybil, and prepared to follow.
"When shall I expect you?" she asked.
"To-morrow night, at the furtherest. I only want to see how the men get on."
"Good-by, then, till to-morrow."
He rode away, and Sybil stood watching them for some time; but her face had lost the sweet expression which possessed so great a charm for Dickinson.
"How long must this continue?" she muttered. "Will there never be an end? Oh, Sybil—Sybil! what a weak, miserable fool you have been! This is the end of your art and talent—a home in the wilderness, a gambler's wife! But it shall change—oh! it shall change, I say!"
She clasped her hands hard over her heart, gave one other glance toward the retreating riders, and entered the house. She went up to her own room, and remained there a long time.
At length she rose and glanced out of the window. The sun had set, and the twilight would have been gloomy and gray but for a faint glory heralding the moon which had not yet appeared in sight over the towering mountains.
"I must be gone!" she exclaimed. "I can not bear this any longer—I should go crazy!"
She went to a chest of drawers that stood in a corner of the room, unlocked them, and took out a small and richly mounted revolver—one of those charming death trifles that Col. Colt has fashioned so exquisitely. It was so elaborate in its workmanship, and so delicately pretty, that it looked rather like a plaything than the dangerous implement it really was. But, small and fanciful as it was, the weapon would have been a dangerous instrument in the hands of that woman had interest or self-preservation rendered it necessary for her to use it.
She loaded the several barrels with dexterity and quickness, which betrayed a perfect knowledge of her task, locked the drawers again, and hid the pistol in her pocket.
She put on a pretty gipsy hat, threw a mantle over hershoulders, and went out of her room, locking the door behind her that any one who chanced to try the door might suppose her occupied within. Down stairs she stole with her quick, stealthy tread, passed through the hall, and saw the men-servants at their supper in the kitchen, with the two Indian women obediently attending to their wants.
She gave one glance, retraced her steps, hurried out of the front door, and followed the path opposite that which her husband and his companion had taken an hour before.
She was speedily concealed from the view of those within the house by a thicket of almond-trees, and passed fearlessly and rapidly along the path which she had trodden in many a long walk when the wretched isolation of her life had become unendurable.
The night came on; the moon was up, giving forth a brilliant but fitful light, for a great troop of clouds were sweeping through the sky and at intervals obscured her beams completely, leaving only traces of struggling light on the edges of the clouds.
The path was rugged and broken—a greater portion of the way led through a heavy forest; but Sybil walked quickly on, disturbed by none of the forest-sounds which might have terrified a less determined woman from following out the end she had set her heart upon.
The wind sighed mournfully among the great trees over her head and dashed the swaying vines against her face; but she resolutely pushed them aside and forced for herself a passage. Lonely night-birds sent forth their cries, so like human wails that they were fairly startling; noisome reptiles, disturbed by her approach, slid away through the gloom with venomous hisses; but still Sybil passed on, upright, defiant, her hand clenching the weapon concealed in her dress with a tight grasp, and her eyes flashing with the fearful enjoyment which the scene produced upon her mind, to which excitement was necessary as oxygen is to the air.
It would have been a singular study, the manner in which this woman's determination overcame her physical cowardice when any cause for prompt action was presented to her. Upon ordinary occasions nothing could have induced her to enter that wood after nightfall; but, under the influence of theinsane desire which had been upon her for days, she trod its recesses as untremblingly as the boldest pioneer who ever crossed the Rocky Mountains could have done.
The greater portion of her way led along the bank of the stream, which flowed in the woods after breaking through the heart of the valley and forcing its way between the narrow of the mountains, that gave it an unwilling egress. The waters rung pleasantly in the shadow, but Sybil did not pause to listen, although her rare nature contained enough of ideality to have led her away into many a romance, had she been thrown among these picturesque shades when her mind was at rest.
It was a weary walk, but in her excitement Sybil thought little of the fatigue. She reached the end of her journey, at length. It was the ranche to which she had directed the party who came with that wounded man to ask shelter of her. Sybil did not go directly to the house. At a considerable distance from the dwelling was a rude hut where the family of one of the workmen lived. Sybil knew the woman; she had once taken a fancy to be very kind to a sick child of the poor creature, and that favor had never been forgotten.
When Sybil knocked at the door, a querulous voice bade her enter, and she went into the miserable abode. The woman was nursing her baby, and two older children sat crouching at her feet, munching black crusts of bread with the sharp appetite which follows a long fast. The room was so bare that it could hardly be called untidy; but the appearance of the female and her children was famished and miserable enough.
She started up—a haggard, raw-boned creature—with a cry at the sight of her visitor, exclaiming:
"Mrs. Yates!"
"Hush!" said Sybil, motioning her back. "I want to ask you a few questions, about which you are to say nothing to any living soul."
"I will," replied the woman. "You were good to my boy. I don't forget that."
Sybil waved that claim to consideration carelessly aside, and went on:
"There was a party of strangers at the house one night last week?"
"Yes," said the woman; "I was up at the ranche when they come in; they had been to your place, and said you wouldn't let them stop. I didn't believe it."
"Go on," said Sybil, breathlessly; she had waited for nearly a week to gain information—waited with the patience which was one of her most remarkable characteristics; but now that the moment was at hand, she could hardly give the woman time to speak.
"One of the gentlemen had a hurt—"
"Was the doctor here?"
"Yes; it wasn't nothing but a sprain."
"You are certain?"
"Sartin of it, ma'am. They staid here that night and the next; he was quite well by that time, and then they went on—that's all I know about them; I wish it was more, if it could oblige you."
"That is enough," said Sybil.
She appeared satisfied; she had walked five miles through the forest to obtain those meager crumbs of information—braved dangers from which even a man might have shrunk; but in that lonely, miserable life of hers, it was something even to have gained those brief tidings.
A few more questions she asked: how the gentleman looked; if he had quite recovered; if the woman had heard him speak.
"Pretty much, ma'am, and he seemed as full of fun as a boy; I guess he didn't mind. Oh, them that's rich can afford to be funny, and folks say he's got a mighty heap of gold."
Sybil made no answer to the woman's remark, but sat for a time in silence, looking straight before her after her old fashion.
"I wish I could give you a bite to eat or drink," said the woman, "but we hain't got a living thing."
Sybil roused herself at once.
"I am in want of nothing," she said; "I must go home now."
"Dear me, you ain't rested; it's a hard ride."
Sybil did not inform her that she had come alone and on foot. She placed some money in the woman's hand, and said kindly, but with emphasis:
"You need not say that I have been here."
"Nobody'll ask," replied the woman; "if they did, it wouldn't do no good—I hain't forgot! Oh, ma'am, I ain't a good woman; I'm a poor, ignorant, bad-tempered critter, that Joe often says would be better off in my grave; but God bless you, that can't do you no harm, forlorn as I be. God bless you, ma'am!"
Sybil hurried away to escape the wound these words gave her. Her better feelings were aroused, and somehow that simple, uncouth benediction jarred upon her ear; it made her more nervous than she had been while threading her way through the lonely woods, and she hastened out into the night once more.
A change had passed over the sky; great masses of heavy clouds were piled up against the horizon and scattered over the heavens, through which the moon rushed in frightened haste. The wind had fallen, and an oppressive sultriness superseded the cool of the woods which had been so apparent a few hours before. Once or twice distant peals of thunder rolled afar off, and the jagged edges of the precipice of clouds were colored with blue lightning.
Sybil struck into the path and took her way homeward. The feeling which supported her had in a measure subsided, and the fears natural to a place and scene like that began to force themselves on her imagination.
Since the day that Laurence and his party stopped at her house, she had been half mad to learn if his injury had proved of little consequence, and if he had been enabled to pursue his journey. There was no one at the ranche whom she dared to trust; for well she knew, although he had not again alluded to the subject, that her husband was watching every movement, and that the slightest show of anxiety on her part would be followed by a repetition of cruelties that since her marriage and removal to that wild place had been of frequent occurrence. She was afraid of this now, and fear took its usual result, craft and concealment. She had borne her fears and suffering in silence up to this time; but when Yates left home, so keen was her anxiety that she could not have lived another hour without starting forth to obtain such information as could be gathered; had the distance been quadrupledshe would have undertaken the journey, for in that mood no danger or fatigue could have deterred her.
Long before Sybil reached the edge of the forest the clouds had gathered force, and swept up to the very zenith; suddenly the moon plunged down behind them, and the woods were buried in darkness. The thunder pealed out again, rolling and booming through the heavens like parks of artillery; terrible flashes of lightning ran like fiery serpents through the clouds, and made every object fearfully distinct. Every shrub and tree took spectral shapes. The path seemed to lose itself in dizzy windings, and Sybil could only cover her face with both hands and rush blindly on, terrified but still courageous.
Great drops of rain began to fall; the thunder increased in violence, and the lightning flashes succeeded each other in such rapid succession that the whole forest was wrapped in flame. Still Sybil hurried on, panting for breath, half crazed with fear, and keeping the path more from instinct than any thought or power of reason.
The storm grew stronger, gathered its mighty powers among the gorges, and surged up into one of those fearful tempests which desolate mountain regions so suddenly. The wind howled through the forest, the thunder pealed and broke directly overhead, and renewed lightning leaped and blazed before her very eyes till she was blinded and stunned. There was no hope of shelter; the thickets which lined the path might conceal wild beasts, frightened into seeking refuge within their depths, but to her they threatened death; she could only totter on, feeling her strength fail with every gust of the storm beat against her. Many times her feet struck against fragments of broken rocks, or became entangled in the rank vines, which brought her heavily to the ground, tearing her garments and bruising her limbs; but in her fright and anguish she did not heed the pain, and, catching at the branches for support, would stagger to her feet again, and plunge on through the darkness, growing more and more desperate each moment. Her drenched garments clung about her form like a shroud—the cold touch made her shudder; and when, in a sudden pause of the tempest, a great owl rushed past her with his ill-omened cry,her senses almost forsook her in the fright. She heard the cracking of branches, the thunder of giant trees, as they came crashing to the earth, and their mangled boughs fell close to her as she tottered on. Long briars, blown out into the road, tore her face and pierced her arms; she shrieked with fear as she forced herself away from their clutches, that were like the talons of wild animals tearing at her life.
The tempest was of short duration; suddenly as it had sprung up the wind died in the depths of the forest; the rain ceased; the black wall of clouds tottered and crumbled against the horizon, breaking away like mountains in a dream.
As Sybil left the wood, the moon soared up again from the prison of clouds where it had been confined, and the night grew serene and quiet, as if no blast had swept through it.
Feeble, weary and faint, Sybil toiled on until she reached her home. The lights were out, the doors fastened, but she had means of entrance, and made her way up to her chamber so stealthily that even the great dogs who bayed and kept watch upon the veranda were not disturbed by her tread.
Once in her room, and feeling that she was safe, the desperation that had nerved her gave way, and she fell a dead weight upon the floor. She had not fainted, but it was a long time before she could find strength to rise; her limbs were stiffened—her very heart was chilled. She could only lie there, staring out at the moon, while her troubled senses heard still the roar of the tempest, and dismal shapes came out of the gloom to torture her more sorely than the storm had done—cold specters from the past that refused to lie quiet in their graves; painful memories, blighted hopes—every sight and sound from which her tortured soul strove to escape but had no power—she could only look through her strained, glaring eyes, and watch the pale procession in its course.
She shook off the weakness and that terrible fear, at last; struggled to her feet, threw off her drenched garments, and crept into bed chilled and trembling, only to renew in sleep the mournful images from which she had tried to escape during her waking hours.
THE WELCOME THAT AWAITS RALPH HINCHLEY.
On the appointed day, Yates and his companion returned home. Sybil went down to meet them as calm and smiling as though the season of their absence had been fraught with no incident of interest, or no terrible conflict had shaken her whole soul to its center. True, very little had happened in acts; but the greatest changes of life occur when all is still. Supper was over, and Sybil had gone up to her room, leaving the two men smoking upon the veranda. There was a low, eager conversation between them after her departure. At length Dickinson raised his voice:
"You had better go now and talk to her."
"Oh, these women," muttered Yates; "there's no telling how she may take any thing."
"She'll take it as you would," replied Dickinson. "Be careful how you tell your story—don't frighten her at first. Why, you may bring a woman to any thing if you don't upset her nerves at the start."
"You are wonderfully wise," mused Yates.
Tom did not seem inclined to provoke a discussion, and after a little hesitation Yates went into the house and mounted the stairs.
He entered Sybil's chamber abruptly, and found her, as usual, seated in a low chair by the window.
"I want to talk to you a little," he said, "and I expect you to act like a sensible woman."
"Let me hear," she answered.
"It's a short story," said he, bluntly. "To-morrow night, then, a man will stop here loaded with money and dust enough to make us all rich for the rest of our lives."
"Well?" The red lips lost their color, and shut hard together; that cruel light shot into the blue eyes.
"It isn't well," retorted Yates, angrily. "He won't drink,and he won't gamble; so what's to be done? Tom talks about taking the fellow in hand."
"No, no," interrupted Sybil, putting up her hands as if to shut out some horrible object. "I have not forgotten San Francisco—don't talk of it, Philip."
"I knew that would be the way!" he exclaimed. "I was a fool to tell you of it. No woman can be trusted when it comes to the pinch; but that goose, Tom, said you would take it kindly, and be the first to hit on some plan that would settle every thing."
"I will help you as I always have," she said, trembling violently; "but not that—oh! heavens, no."
"There, there, you foolish child!" he replied, not ill-naturedly. "That wasn't your fault or mine; the men got to quarreling in the house, and we killed the other—"
"But it was so terrible; that dying man's face has haunted me ever since—I can see his eyes glaring, and hear his breath struggling and gurgling yet—see him clutching and tearing at the bed—"
"Don't, for God's sake!" he exclaimed, catching hold of her; "you'll drive a man mad!"
She had risen from her seat, and was pointing wildly at the floor as she spoke, but his voice seemed to recall her to herself. She sunk back into her chair panting for breath, while Yates vainly endeavored to conceal his own discomposure.
"You will go crazy in one of these abominable fits," he said, brushing his hand across his forehead, and sweeping the great drops of perspiration away.
"Then don't bring such memories back," she shuddered.
After all, the woman was the first to regain her usual manner, while Yates walked slowly up and down the room, his mind divided between the recollections her words had aroused and the plans which had been arranged during the past days.
"So we must give it up," he said, at length, "and all for your confounded folly."
"Do you call it folly?" cried Sybil, with a miserable specter of a laugh.
"Yes, I do! There is one thing certain; your obstinacyand cowardice will lengthen your stay here by ten good years."
"I am not a coward—"
"Call yourself what you please! I say, before we can afford to leave this place, the youth will be gone out of your face, the brightning from your eyes—you'll be an old woman, Sybil."
She did not appear moved by his threats, and, as was customary with him when thwarted, he began to pass into a violent rage. She did not answer the harsh words and maledictions which he heaped upon her; but once, when he made a movement as if to give her a blow, as had often happened before, she turned upon him with something in her face from which he shrunk in spite of himself.
"Don't do that!" she exclaimed, in an awful whisper; "I warn you never to attempt that again!"
The victory was more nearly won to her than it had been for many a day. Yates dropped his hand and turned to go out.
"Well, let every thing slide," he said; "this comes of trusting a woman with secrets! I must sit in my chair and see sixty thousand dollars good slip out of my hands, and Ralph Hinchley go by without lifting a finger."
Sybil sprung forward and clutched his arm; the face she bent toward him was like that of a corpse.
"Speak that name again," she whispered; "speak it."
"Ralph Hinchley," he repeated, pushing her aside with a feeling like absolute fear. "Confound you, what do you look like that for?"
Sybil still held him fast, and her voice rung out hollow and unnatural:
"Why, if you murder him, I will avenge it; so God help us both!"
"What is he to you? Do you know him?"
She forced back the whirlwind of passion, and stood up, cold and white.
"I never saw him," she replied; "but if you wish his money, I shall not stand between you and him; his life you shall not take."
"Are you in earnest?"
She answered him with a look.
"But we have not settled on that; I propose to follow him—"
"Fools!" exclaimed Sybil. "To-morrow night the house and the valley will be full of mad and drunken men. There may be half a dozen robberies—will one more make any great difference?"
"What a woman you are!" exclaimed Yates, with that sort of admiring dread with which a bad man watches a superior in coldness and courage. "It will be impossible to say who did it! What a mind you have when it works in earnest."
"There will be a score of people here wanting lodgings to-morrow night; surely, your way is clear."
She waved him impatiently off when he would have pursued the subject.
"Go down stairs," she said; "I am tired of this. I am coming in a moment."
He went out. She stood still in the gloom, while that terrible look of ferocity came back to her face.
"Either of them, or both," she muttered; "I don't care! Hinchley is Margaret's cousin—Sybil Yates will save him; but not till they have gone far enough to prove the attempt. Then let them arrest Philip if they will—oh! I am sick of this life, and do so loathe him."
She swept out of the room, cold and stern as a Nemesis, descending to the presence of those men who sat together whispering of things which they dared not speak aloud. They had excited themselves with drink; but Sybil was not afraid to look the reality in the face—her resolve was taken, she would not falter. If she reasoned with her conscience it was thus: "The plan is not mine—I could not help it. These men are false and desperate; I can guide but not defeat them. When it is done—oh, how my heart beats; its chains are falling off. His petty sins shall bind me here no longer."
ARRIVAL OF THE GUEST.
It was Saturday evening; the moon rose upon a scene which utterly changed the whole aspect of the ranche.
Since early in the afternoon the road from the mines had been filled with men, who poured down into the valley to seek relaxation after their week's successful toil, and relieve themselves, perhaps, of every ounce of the yellow dust which they had labored so hard to gain.
About the tents and cabins were grouped scores of men from every nation of the civilized world. Long tables had been set out in the open air, covered with such food as the owners of the huts could procure; barrels of liquor were standing under the trees, ready broached, and moist at the tap from frequent applications.
A great fire had been kindled near the cabins, at which quarters of beef, joints of venison, and groups of wild game were roasting with a slow success that filled the air with appetizing odors. In fact, the whole valley took the appearance of a political barbecue or gipsy encampment. The miners, in the slouched hats, red shirts, and muddy boots, gave picturesque effect to the scene which a philosopher would have condemned and an artist forgiven at the first glance.
The ranche had its full share of visitors; food and drink were bountifully provided. Yates and Dickinson moved about among the men, excited by liquor and evil passions, and urging them on to every species of excess, like fiends seeking to drag down humanity to their own base level.
Secure in her chamber, Sybil listened to the tumult and smiled quietly. She really had something in common with Lucretia Borgia besides the golden tint in her hair. She was neither shocked nor afraid; but had grown so accustomed to such scenes that they no longer had any power to affect her.
She was sitting by her window, and looking toward thepath which led from the mountains, so absorbed in thought that she scarcely heard the shouts and hideous din which ascended from below.
At last she beheld two men on horseback coming down the declivity, preceded by a guide. No trace of exultation lit up her features; the face grew more hard and stern; the peculiar look which gave such age to her countenance settled over its whiteness—that was all. She clenched her hands on the window-sill, and watched their approach.
"Margaret's cousin," she whispered, once; "well, hereafter in my dreams I shall be worthy her thanks—she was fond of him—shedding tears—yes, yes, it is my turn now!"
The men rode slowly on, and as they reached the foot of the mountain, and the demoniac scene, lighted by the moon and the glare of the camp-fires, burst upon them, they simultaneously checked their horses, and looked at each other in horrified astonishment.
"Great heavens, what a sight!" exclaimed Hinchley.
"It's like going down into purgatory," muttered the domestic. "Shall we have to spend the night here, Mr. Hinchley?"
"You can't do no better," interrupted the guide; "it's the same thing clear to Wilson's ranche. You'll do well enough at Phil Yates's; he promised you rooms and beds to yourselves—you'd best come on."
The guide looked eagerly about as he spoke, his savage nature in a state of pleasurable excitement, and anxious to join the desperate crowds that were scattered through the valley.
"I wish we had stopped at the diggings," Hinchley said.
The guide had stepped away from them, and they conversed for a few seconds in private.
"Luckily, nobody knows we've got the money and dust with us," said the man.
"That is true. I dare say we are quite as safe in this crowd as we should be alone with the people that live at Wilson's house. You must keep a good look-out all night, Martin; I will see that our rooms are close together. If we are assailed we must do our best."
There was no time for further conversation; the guide summoned them impatiently, and they rode on toward the ranche, passing several camp-fires about which were groupedevil-looking men drinking and gambling, some upon the ground, some upon the newly-made stumps from which the forest-trees had been cut.
Nobody paid much attention to them, and they passed on up to the house, where Yates received them with a rough courtesy which was in a measure reassuring, compared with the appearance of the crowds they had seen.
"You have hit on a bad night," he said, as he conducted them into the house; "but I will give you rooms up stairs—you will be quiet enough there."
"Show us to them at once," said Hinchley; "I am fairly sick with this disgusting scene."
"I used to feel so," returned Yates; "but a man gets accustomed to any thing in these regions."
He led them through the hall and up the stairs, the servant carrying the saddle-bags and packages. They were shown into a comfortable room, which, in comparison with the scene they had left, appeared like a palace.
"You will do very well here," said Yates. "That next room is for your man. I'll have some supper sent up to you. I don't keep a tavern, nay how, but those rascals below would tear my house down about my ears if I refused them admittance. It's nothing when you are acquainted with California life."
"I'm blessed if I don't hope my acquaintance'll be a short one," muttered Martin.
Yates laughed as he left the room, and Hinchley threw himself into a chair, wearied with many days' privation and hard riding.
"I guess we're safe enough here," said Martin.
"Oh, yes; I apprehend no danger at all."
While they waited for their supper, and listened to the horrible din below, Yates went on to the room where Sybil was seated.
"They have come," he whispered, going close to where she sat.
"I know it," she replied, quietly.
"You don't feel afraid, Sybil? You won't draw back?"
"I?" she laughed, in her scornful way.
"Stop that noise!" exclaimed Yates, with a menacing gesture; "you laugh like a ghost."
Mad as he was with liquor and evil passions, there was something so unnatural in that sound that it half sobered him.
While they stood eyeing each other, the door opened, and Dickinson reeled into the room.
"Come down stairs, Phil," he said; "there'll have to be another barrel of whisky got out."
"You are drunk," said the other.
"A man needs to be," he shivered. "Good heavens, Mrs. Yates, how you look!"
"Never mind that," she answered. "Go, both of you, and do your best to keep that crowd of demons occupied."
"They are mighty good-natured with us," said Tom. "That idea of yours, Sybil, of giving them the liquor, has set us up wonderfully; hark! they're cheering Phil now."
Sybil flung up the window, and leaned over the sill, as shout after shout arose like the yelling of fiends.
Dickinson pulled her hastily back.
"Don't let them see you—no woman would be safe! I have told everybody you had gone down to Featherstone's."
"No, keep yourself close, Sybil," said Yates.
"Do not fear for me; go down stairs, both of you. I want to be alone."
"What time do you think—"
It was Dickinson who began to speak; she checked the broken utterance with a look.
"At the time I appointed; half past one."
She looked from one to the other, but neither of those hardened men had the nerve to meet her eyes. They shrunk out of the room in silence, without another word being spoken, and once more Sybil was alone.
The riot and confusion increased. Men rushed about like demons, singing, shouting, and clashing their cups together. The veranda and grass in front were covered with poor wretches, who had fallen there in their intoxication, and were recklessly trampled upon by their companions. Yells and shrieks went up, shot after shot was fired, knives gleamed in the starlight, more than one fierce contest occurred, but through it all that woman sat at her window and waited, appalled neither by the horror of the scene, nor the fearful thoughts which surged through her soul.
THE GAMBLER'S FATE.
It was long past midnight, and something of quiet had stolen over the valley; yet that very stillness, taken in connection with the scene, was more impressive than the riot and tumult had been.
The lower rooms of Yates's dwelling were in a state of confusion beyond description. Glasses, dishes and broken food had been swept to the floor to give place to cards and dice, which began the instant the wolf-like appetites of the men had been satisfied. The floor was covered with broken bottles and saturated with liquor and costly wines; here and there darker stains gleamed in the moonlight, betraying where some deadly fray had ended just short of murder. Men lay stretched upon the tables in heavy slumber, huddled among the chairs and under the benches, either asleep or so deeply intoxicated as to be unconscious of their degradation. Here and there scattered gold shone out from the stains and pools of wine, and a few wretches groped about picking up stray nuggets or scraping together the saturated gold-dust and hiding it in their garments.
In some of the rooms groups of men were still busy over the cards, but even these had relapsed into quiet; nothing was heard but the rattle of the dice or an occasional oath from the lips of some ruined gambler.
Out of doors the scene was still different. The whole length of the valley could be commanded in one view—the smouldering camp-fires; men lying stretched upon the trampled grass; poor wretches, wounded in the quarrels, who had dragged themselves under the shadow of the great trees to bind up their wounds or seek the slumber of exhaustion and spent passions. Over all shone the moon, pouring down a cloud of silvery radiance upon the repulsive scene, and rendering it more horrible from the pure contrast.
At one of the card-tables Yates was still seated, whileDickinson hovered about, unable to remain quiet for a moment, and, in spite of his partial intoxication, haggard and pale at the recollection of the deed yet to be performed.
A meaning glance from Yates sent him out of the room. Very soon his confederate flung down the cards, and, relinquishing his place to some other sleepless desperado, made his way among the forms huddled upon the floor, and passed into the hall.
No one was watching; the stillness deepened each instant. Up the stairs passed the two men, and entered the room where Sybil awaited them.
Few words passed among them, but the woman was much less shaken than either of those bold men. They stood for a short time conversing in broken whispers; then Yates turned quickly aside, moved to the end of the room where a tall wardrobe was placed. A single touch upon a secret spring, and the heavy piece of furniture swung noiselessly out, affording admittance to the chamber beyond.
Ralph Hinchley started from a troubled dream to feel a strange oppression upon his chest—a sweet, sickening odor pervading the atmosphere—and to see through the open door Martin lying upon the bed with a man bending over him and pressing a napkin close against his face.
He started up in bed, unable to realize whether it was real or only another wild vision. A blow from an unseen hand dashed him back upon the pillow; but as he fell, with a smothered cry, he saw a white face bending over him, and in the doorway a woman enveloped in a mantle, which concealed her features and most of her person, uttering cries for help.
He started up again with frantic violence, shrieking out his servant's name:
"Martin! Martin!"
He heard a cry from the woman:
"Help! help!"
Then his assailant sprung upon him. Hinchley grappled him with all the fury of desperation, and the two rolled over and over in deadly strife. The man who had kept guard by the servant's bed escaped at the first tumult; but those two men continued that fearful conflict. Hinchley was a braveman; the belief that his life was at stake gave him the strength of a tiger. He shrieked for help in a voice which rung through the house and roused even the intoxicated sleepers below.
There was a sound in the halls of eager voices and rapid feet. Hinchley's assailant tried to dash him to the floor and escape; but those long, slender arms seemed made of iron, and held him pinioned.
At that moment the servant woke from the stupor, which had only taken a partial effect upon his senses, and sprung up with a mad cry.
"Help, Martin, help!" shrieked Hinchley, feeling his strength begin to fail. "Come, I say!"
Half stupefied as he was, the man comprehended his master's danger, rushed upon their foe, and hurled him back upon the floor just as he succeeded in escaping from Hinchley's hold.
This instant the door was broken open, and a crowd of infuriated men rushed into the chamber, roused by those shrieks for aid.
A few quick words explained the whole affair. The troop pushed Hinchley and his servant back, seized the man and dragged him toward the window. The moonlight fell broadly on his terror-stricken face.
"It's Phil Yates!" exclaimed a score of voices.
The wretch had ceased to struggle; he felt that his doom was sealed, and lay panting and passive in their clutches.
"This accounts for his good-nature," resounded on all sides. "This explains the general treat. He meant to stupefy us and then shirk the murder on some one."
"Where's Tom?" called one of the number.
A rush was made through the rooms, but the confederate had escaped.
"At least we will serve this fellow out!" cried a hoarse voice.
"Ay! ay!" they shouted, "down stairs with him! There's a blasted pine back of the house—just the thing!"
They gathered about the shuddering man like wild beasts scenting their prey. Hinchley in vain attempted to speak a word which might gain the miserable man a reprieve. Theypushed him rudely aside, dragged their victim down the stairs and out upon the veranda, the throng parting right and left, allowing those who held him free passage.
In an instant the whole valley seemed aroused, and hundreds of fierce faces glared on the hapless creature as he hung powerless over the shoulders of his captors.
There was a hurried consultation among those nearest the criminal; terrible words broke from their lips which were echoed in husky whispers by the whole crowd.
"Hang him! hang him!"
Again the crowd parted, and four stalwart men dragged the half insensible creature round a corner of the house and moved toward a shivered pine-tree that stretched out its blasted limbs between the dwelling and the precipice.
"We want a rope," some one said.
A man rushed out of the house, carrying a long crimson scarf, which he fluttered over the heads of the crowd.
"This will do famously!" he called. "It belonged to his wife—she was huddling it over her face."
"Where is the woman?" they yelled. "Let's exterminate every snake in the nest!"
"She isn't on hand—twisted herself out of my hold like a cat, dashed off to the precipice, and the last I saw of her she was dragging herself up by the bushes."
"Dickinson is gone, too."
"No matter; we have this one safe. Gracious, how limpsy he is!"
"Make short work of it, then, before he shows fight."
"Never fear!" shouted one of his captors. "Say a prayer, you villain; it's your last chance."
The hapless wretch only moaned; fear had drawn him beyond the power of speech. Closer gathered the crowd—he felt their breath hot upon his cheek; hundreds of fierce eyes glared into his own; innumerable voices roared out his death-sentence. It was a terrible scene.
They seized the scarf and twisted it fiercely about his neck; scores of ruthless hands forced him toward the skeleton tree; the shouts and execrations grew more fiendish, and over all the sinking moon shed her last pale luster, lighting up that work of horror.
The man had spoken truly. Sybil Yates had fled to the hill. With the first cries of Hinchley, she had attempted to escape from the principal entrance. But the valley was sprinkled with camp-fires which must betray her. In front of the house, lanterns swung from the knotted cedar-posts, and cast their unsteady light on a crowd of fierce men swarming toward the cries that still rung through the dwelling. One of these men saw her, and, leaping up the stairs, tore the scarf from her head, bringing a flood of hair down with it. She wrenched herself from the grasp he fastened on her arm, plunged down a back staircase, and, darting by the blasted pine, made for the precipice.
The face of this rocky wall was torn apart near the base, and the fissure, which slanted across the face of the precipice, choked up with myrtle-bushes, grape-vines and trees, stinted in their growth from want of soil; but it was deep enough to hide that poor human creature flying for her life. She ran toward the broken line which betrayed the fissure, and, crushing through the sweet myrtle-bushes, fastened her foot in a coil of vines, and crept upward with that scared face turned over her shoulder, unable to tear her eyes from the crowd of men that came sweeping round the house and surged up to that gaunt pine-tree.
They carried lanterns, and torches of burning pine, throwing a red light all around and illuminating the very foot of the precipice. Sybil crowded herself back into the fissure and dragged the vines over her. Then, shuddering till the foliage trembled around her, she looked through it, ghastly with fear but fascinated still. There was the man who had been her fate, the cruel tyrant whose breath had made her tremble an hour ago, lying across the shoulders of his late friends, already half lifeless, yet shrieking faintly from dread of the death to which they were lighting him.
The woman was seized with dizzy terror. The lights flowed before her eyes in a river of fire. The specters of a thousand gaunt old trees danced through it, and among them swung a human form to and fro, to and fro, as it would sway through her memory forever and ever. She was pressed against the rock, her foot tangled in the coiling vines, her hands clenched hard among the tender shrubs—but for that she must have fallen headlong to the broken rocks beneath.
All at once the tumult ceased; a frightful stillness came over that dark crowd; men shrunk away from its outskirts into the darkness, frightened by their own demon work. She clung to the vines, and looked down dizzily; a feeling of horrible relief came over her. She turned her face to the rock, and held her breath, listening, as if his voice could still reach her.
It was near morning before the crowd around that tree dispersed. Then she crept feebly down the rocky fissure, and stood trembling on the trampled grass. One glance upon the pine, and she turned away, sick at heart. A fragment of her own red scarf fluttered there—and—and—
Shutting her eyes close, Sybil staggered on toward the house, entered the back-door, and descended the cellar-stairs. She took a lamp and some matches from a niche in the wall, and passed on into the cellar. She had been there once before within the last forty-eight hours, and every thing necessary for her flight was prepared.
Connected with the cellars was a small natural cave, which had been used as a place to keep liquor-casks. Sybil and her husband alone knew of the real use to which this place was put.
Only a few moments after, Sybil stood in that cave so metamorphosed that she might have passed unquestioned, even by her best friend.
She was attired in the dress of a Spanish sailor, her delicate skin dyed of a rich, dark brown, her golden hair concealed under a slouched hat, beneath which were visible short, thick curls of raven hair.
There was still other work to be done. Carefully shading her lamp from the draught of air, the woman moved toward a corner of the vault, pulled away several heavy casks, which it would have seemed beyond her power to lift, raised one of the flat stones with which a portion of the vault had been paved, and disclosed the lid of an iron chest.
She unlocked it, flung up the top lid, and the lamplight struck upon a quantity of gold-dust and money which had been concealed there.
Yates had collected that store without the knowledge of his confederates; even Sybil had discovered his secret by accident.
"Oh!" she muttered, impatiently, "there is a fortune here. I can not carry it. No matter, it is safe—only let me escape this spot. Some other time. It can not be found. Some other time."
She took out as many pieces of gold as she could manage to bestow about her person without encumbering her flight; but even in her distress and danger, her judgment and reason were capable of action. It was better to leave the money in safety, and return for it at some future time, than to overload herself so much that her flight would be impeded. She might become so weary of the weight as to be forced to fling it aside. Thus the woman reasoned only a few hours after that death scene.
She closed the chest, locked it and replaced the stones, piled the empty boxes in their former position, and crept away. She extinguished the little lamp, flung it into a dark corner of the cellar, and bent her steps toward the opening, which was so overgrown with weeds that it was entirely hidden.
She managed to raise herself along the broken wall, and forced her way through the narrow aperture into the open air. Her face and hands were bleeding from the wounds she had received against the sharp stones, but she felt no pain.
She was completely hidden from the view of all those about the house by a dense thicket of cactus and flowery shrubs, which formed a thick wall for a considerable distance. Her pony was tied to a tree where she had herself stationed him early in the evening. For the first time a look of exultation shot into her face—she was safe now!
Before mounting her horse, she crept along the edge of the thicket to a spot from whence she could command a view of the house.
The crowd was still rushing wildly about—she could hear their murmurs and execrations. The moon had set, but the cold dawn cast a gray light over the landscape.
Sybil turned her eyes toward the dwelling. She saw the pine-tree—that one projecting branch from which a fragment of the silk scarf fluttered yet.
After that momentary glance she started up, mounted her pony, and rode rapidly away through the forest.
So the day broke, still and calm. The first glow of the sun tinged the mountain tops, leaving the valley still in deep shadow. The excited throngs moved restlessly about, and at length group after group started away from the house, anxious to escape the sickening sight which met their eyes; now that their fury was satiated, they turned in dread away.
The sun mounted higher in the heavens, shot dazzlingly against the sides of the mountains, colored the noisy torrent, and played softly about the old house.
Not a living thing was in sight. The sun played over the grass, rustled the vines, and there, in the silence and amid the shadows, hung that still form, swayed slowly to and fro by the light breeze that struck the branches.
An hour passed, but there was no change!
Afar through the forest rode the fearless woman, seeking a place of shelter. The last fetter which had bound her to that horrible life was severed. Across the dark sea she could seek a new home, and make for herself another existence, untroubled by a single echo from the past.
A CANTER AND A FALL.
It was a lofty, well-lighted apartment, fitted up with book-cases, yet, from its general arrangement, evidently occupied as much for a sitting-room as a library.
The easy-chairs were pushed into commodious corners, the reading table, in the center of the floor, was covered with newspapers and pamphlets; but they had been partially moved aside to afford place to a tiny work-basket, an unstrung guitar with a handful of flowers scattered over it, and various other trifles—all giving token of a female presence and occupations, which alone can lend to an apartment like this a pleasant, home-like appearance.
It was near sunset; two of the windows of the library looked toward the west, and a rich glow stole through theparted curtains, from the mass of gorgeous clouds piling themselves rapidly up against the horizon.
But at the further end of the room, the shadows lay heavy and dark, and two statues gleamed out amid the gloom, like ghosts frightened away from the sunlight.
In that dimness a woman walked slowly to and fro, her hands linked loosely together, her dress rustling faintly against the carpet, and her every movement betraying some deep and engrossing thought.
For a full half-hour she had indulged in that revery, all the while moving slowly up and down, the fixed resolution of her face growing harder, and her eyes turned resolutely toward the shadows, as if there was something in the cheerful radiance at the other end of the room which caused her pain or annoyance.
In that dim light, the countenance had an expression from which one entering unperceived would have shrunk instinctively; yet a portrait of the face, painted as it appeared among the shadows, would hardly have been recognized by those daily accustomed to a view of the features.
Perhaps it was the gloom around which gave the face that look—cold, hard, unrelenting force—and lent the eyes that subtle, dangerous gleam.
Some noise from without disturbed her reflections; she dropped her arms to her side, and passed quietly toward the middle of the room. As she stood for an instant by the table, the rosy light of the approaching sunset played full upon her face; it scarcely seemed possible it could be the one which looked so dark and cruel among the shadows only a moment before.
An erect, well-proportioned figure, rather below the medium height, yet so graceful and elegant that at the first glance one would have pronounced her tall. She was still quite young, out of her teens possibly, but no one would have judged her twenty-one—in the twilight her face had appeared ten years older at least.
The features were finely cut, the lips a trifle too thin, perhaps, but the complexion was wonderfully delicate; rich masses of light brown hair, which in the sunlight took a golden tinge, were brushed in wavy folds back from thesmooth, low forehead, underneath which the gray eyes looked out as calm and cold as though deep emotion had never brought shadows or tears into their depths.
It would have been a very acute observer that could have read that pale, secretive face. One might have lived years in daily intercourse with her, and never believed her any thing but a quiet person, yielding herself good-naturedly to the plans or amusements of others, and finding sufficient content therein.
While she stood by the table, the tramp of horses sounded upon the gravel sweep without; she moved to the window, and remained watching the groom as he led a couple of saddle-horses up and down before the side-entrance of the house.
Very soon there was a sound of opening doors, and a man's voice called from the hall:
"Margaret! Miss Waring!"
The lady started at those clear, somewhat imperative tones, but the summons was evidently not intended for her; after that involuntary movement, she resumed her former attitude, leaning against the window-sill with her eyes fixed absently upon the changing sky.
In a moment the door of the library opened, and a gentleman advanced a step or two beyond the threshold, looking around as if in search of some one. When he saw the young lady standing there, he said, hastily:
"I thought Margaret was here."
She turned as if for the first time conscious of his presence.
"I beg your pardon; what did you wish?"
"I am looking for Miss Waring; I heard George bring up the horses several moments since."
"I believe she is in her room; shall I call her?"
"Pray do not trouble yourself, Miss Chase. I dare say she will be down immediately."
"Here I am now," said a voice from the stairs, and a young lady very pretty andpetiteentered the room dressed in a riding-habit. "I hope I have not kept you waiting, Mr. Laurence."
"I am only just ready," he replied, carelessly.
Miss Chase half turned from the window; the sunset rays fell upon her hair and forehead, and, partially shut in by the folds of the curtains, she made an exceedingly striking picture.
Margaret was buttoning her gauntlets, but Laurence caught the effect, and was pleased, as any one with the slightest artistic taste must have been.
"You have not put on your habit, Miss Chase," he said. "Don't you ride with us?"
"I made my excuses to Miss Waring an hour ago," she replied, in the sweet, calm voice habitual with her.
"She has a bad headache," said the young lady mentioned, looking up from her task, "and is bent on a solitary walk in hopes of curing it."
"I thought you were never troubled with such pretty little female ailments," returned Laurence, pleasantly.
"It very seldom happens," answered Miss Chase, indifferently, turning more toward the window, as if she did not wish any conversation to deprive her of a view of the sunset.
"It seems a little selfish for us to leave you to a lonely walk," he continued.
"So I told her," added Margaret; "but she would not be persuaded."
"I would not prevent your ride for the world," she said, in precisely the same unmoved tone. "I shall only walk to the gates and back."
"I am sorry you can not accompany us," Laurence said. "I suppose that wretched headache will prevent me taking my revenge at chess to-night."
"Hardly, I think; it will go off in the cool of the evening."
"You are very obliging—"
"Oh, she means to beat you unmercifully," interrupted Margaret; "don't you, Miss Chase?"
"If I can, of course," she replied, with a little deprecatory gesture, as if the attempt were likely to prove a hopeless one.
"We shall see," returned the gentleman. "Come, Margaret, the horses will get restless. A pleasant walk, Miss Chase."
She bowed, and watched the pair out of the room; when the door closed, she took her old station, saw them mount and ride swiftly down the avenue.
Very quiet and still she stood there—there was no pulsation strong enough even to stir the lace upon her bosom. One hand fell at her side, the other was pressed hard againstthe marble sill, and once more the cold, fixed resolution crept slowly over her countenance.
It must have been a full half-hour before she in turn left the apartment. She went up to her room, came down with her bonnet and shawl on, and walked out upon the broad veranda which ran the whole length of the house.
She did not follow the avenue which led from the dwelling down to the highway, but took one of the numerous paths which wound among the shrubberies. Sometimes in the full glory of the waning sunset, anon a darker shadow among the other shadows that lay under the trees, she passed, walking rapidly, as if anxious to find quiet in bodily fatigue—then forgetting her purpose, if it had been present to her mind, and moving slowly along, deeply engrossed in thought as when she stood in the library an hour before.
It was already twilight when Sybil Chase reached the ponderous iron gates which gave entrance from the road to the grounds. She seated herself upon a stone bench a little off from the avenue, and gazed quietly around with that observing eye which never lost the most minute particular.
The air was soft and warm, the moon was already coming up and dispelling the dusky shadows sufficiently to distinguish objects at a considerable distance. The murmur of a little brook that traversed the grounds and came out of the thicket back of her seat was pleasantly audible, and the deafened cry of a whippowill sounded through the distance. The moon rose higher, the repose of the spring evening increased, and through the distance Sybil's quick ear detected the tramp of horses, faint but rapidly approaching nearer.
She rose from the bench and looked up the road. She saw Margaret and Mr. Laurence cantering gayly over the nearest hill. While she looked, the girl's horse shied at some object by the road—started so violently that his rider, evidently taken by surprise, was thrown to the ground.
Sybil Chase pressed her two hands hard together, a quick breath broke from her lips, and her eyes looked out large and wild; but she made no effort to go forward—never stirred from her attitude of strange expectancy.
Before Mr. Laurence could dismount and go to his companion's assistance, a man rode rapidly up behind them.Sybil saw him stop, spring from his horse, and hasten with Mr. Laurence toward the lady. Before they reached the spot, Margaret had risen; through the stillness Sybil caught the echo of hurried exclamations, a gay laugh from the young girl, which seemed to give assurance that she had suffered no injury.
At that sound the lady whispered a few words to herself; then, after an instant of hesitation, hurried toward the gates, pushed them open, and ran with all her speed toward the foot of the hill.
Before she reached the first rise, the three had mounted and were riding toward her; she was plainly visible to them in the moonlight, toiling rapidly up the ascent, and apparently so overcome by agitation that nothing but a desire to be of service preserved her strength.
"Are you hurt?" she called, wildly.
"Not in the least," Margaret answered, while Laurence waved his riding-cap gayly in the air.
Sybil clasped her hands, as if in involuntary thanksgiving, and sunk down upon the bank.
They rode toward her; as they reached the spot, she rose and called again:
"You are not hurt, Miss Waring?"
"Not in the least, I assure you."
"Not even frightened, I believe," added Laurence.
"I thought she was killed," exclaimed Sybil. "Oh, that dreadful shying horse! Don't—don't ride him again, Margaret."
The party drew rein near her.
"He meant no harm, poor fellow," returned Margaret.
"He might have killed you, nevertheless," said Sybil, with a sort of reproachful anxiety.
She spoke rapidly, and appeared much alarmed; nevertheless, she found time to steal a quick glance toward the stranger who accompanied her friends. As her eyes fell upon him she gave a slight start, and her face grew pale; but, with a strong effort, she mastered the emotion, and turned indifferently away.