"Let me go!" she exclaimed. "I blush for my own weakness. Let me go, Edward Laurence!"
She hurried away, leaving him bewildered and troubled. For the first time he felt dimly that Sybil loved him, and the consciousness brought a host of inexplicable feelings to his heart. She looked so lovely in her distress—her gentleness, in contrast with Margaret's violence and ill-temper, was so touching, that her image lingered in his imagination—the only ray of light in all the blackness which surrounded him.
As Hinchley and his cousin passed up the hill, they saw Sybil Chase conversing with a little group of friends.
"I have a horror of that woman," said Ralph.
"Yet she seems a quiet, sensible person," replied Margaret. "I have allowed myself to become prejudiced against her; but when I am in her society I forget it all."
Hinchley did not answer. The remembrance of that terrible night in California came back, as was always the case, when Sybil Chase came in sight. Her figure started up instead of the woman he had but half seen, and he turned from the thought with self-abhorrence—it was wicked to indulge it even for an instant.
While they stood together, Laurence approached, pale and agitated, like a man under the excitement of wine.
"Edward!" Hinchley called out, cheerfully. "Laurence, is it not almost time to go home?"
"I suppose you are at liberty to choose your own time," replied Laurence, insolently.
Margaret colored scarlet; an insult to her cousin seemed given to herself.
"What is the matter?" asked Ralph, in surprise.
"Oh, pay no attention," interposed Margaret, before Laurence could reply. "It is only a slight specimen of Mr. Laurence's civility. He is not satisfied with being rude to me, but must extend his bad manners to my relatives."
"You are at liberty to put any construction you please upon my words or manner," returned Laurence. "I shall not account to either of you."
"To me it is a matter of perfect indifference," said Margaret, haughtily.
Ralph looked from one to the other in pain and astonishment, at a loss what to say or do.
"Now don't quarrel like children," he exclaimed, trying to laugh. "Come, shake hands and be friends."
"Miss Waring's conduct proves how sincerely she desires to be friends," answered Laurence, with a harsh laugh.
"I do not wish it," she exclaimed, greatly irritated by his manner.
"Margaret! Margaret!" pleaded Ralph.
"Oh, don't check her," sneered Laurence.
"He can not," returned Margaret. "I am weary of this rudeness—weary of you."
"Say and do what you please; I will leave you in more agreeable society," said Laurence, hurrying away.
Hinchley tried to expostulate with her, but words were thrown away. During the ride home, and the whole evening, Margaret and Laurence did not speak. Ralph kept near her, anxious to soothe her anger, while Laurence and Sybil Chase watched every movement and look.
Thus, with her proud spirit up in arms, and her heart aching with wounded tenderness, the poor girl rushed into the snare so insidiously laid beneath her feet.
THE JAIL.
In one of the interior towns of California there stands a jail, by no means striking in appearance, or remarkable for its solidity or strength, yet possessing the horrible fascination which any place connected with tragic deeds fastens on the mind.
Within that prison many notable criminals had been confined; murders had been committed there by hardened men, daring every thing in a struggle for liberty; many a reckless criminal had gone from thence to the gallows; even youths, with the freshness of boyhood on their cheeks, had gone out from those walls to a violent death, incited to evil doing and crime by the very lawlessness and sin about them.
In one of the cells upon the upper floor, a single occupant was seated, crouched down upon a bench, and his eyes moodily fixed upon the small grated window which looked out upon a sort of paved court around which the jail was built.
The prisoner might have been a man of thirty-five, but in that dim light, with his unshaven beard, and face pale from inactivity and confinement, it was difficult to judge accurately of his age.
The countenance was harsh and unpleasant, but the expression was rather that of reckless passion than revealing any stern, sinister determination. His frame was large and muscular, the veins were knotted and swollen upon his pale hands, and it was indeed pitiable to see so much physical strength wasting in the gloom of a prison.
Sometimes his lips moved; the restless flashing of his eyes betrayed the brooding thought within his mind. At last he rose suddenly, took the bench upon which he had been sitting, and lifted it, as if anxious to test his strength. He held it extended upon the fingers of his right hand in a manner which required no inconsiderable force. Then he set it down upon the floor, abruptly as he had raised it, and laughed a low, smothered laugh.
"Not quite a baby yet," he muttered—"not quite! I can do it, and I will. I have got out of worse scrapes than this—fudge, what's this place compared to Australia?"
A low imprecation finished the sentence, then he resumed his seat, and began his meditations anew. But quiet seemed impossible to him in the mood into which he had worked himself.
He rose again, carried the bench to the window, and, standing upon it, managed to leap high enough to grasp the gratings. There he suspended himself, with his whole weight resting upon his hands, and looked out. When he had finished his survey, he loosed his hold and dropped lightly upon the bench.
"It's all right," he whispered to himself. "I know the place. It can be done, and I am the man to do it."
It was then somewhat after midday, and, as the man resumed his seat, there was a tread without, a sound of keysgrating in their lock, then the door opened and the jailer entered, carrying a sparse meal, which he set down near the prisoner.
The man looked up and nodded good-naturedly enough.
"I thought you didn't mean to let me have any dinner," he said.
"Oh, I don't want to starve you," returned the jailer. "Eat and make yourself comfortable."
It was no unusual thing for the prisoner to engage this man in conversation, and if he was in the mood he answered readily and with sufficient kindness.
"What day of the month is this?" asked the man, preparing to attack the repast set before him.
"The twelfth."
"How a fellow loses his count in this miserable hole," returned the prisoner.
"Don't slander your quarters, there's worse in the world; ten to one you've been in 'em."
"Maybe so and maybe not. I say, California sheep get pretty tough, now don't they?" he continued, tearing vigorously at the baked mutton which had been placed before him.
"Makes a man strong to eat tough mutton," replied the jailer.
"Think so?" and the prisoner smiled a little, unseen by his companion.
"I'm sure of it," said the jailer.
"Perhaps you've had your turn at it," observed the man.
"Can't say I ever did, and don't want to."
"You needn't; still it's not so bad that one can't bear it."
The jailer prepared to retire.
"You're a cheerful, good-natured fellow, any how," he remarked.
"Yes, that is my way."
"And a good deal better than being so cantankerous as some chaps we have here; they only get harder treatment."
The prisoner agreed with him completely, and with some other careless remark, the jailer left the cell.
When the door closed, and he heard the heavy bolts clang into their sockets, the prisoner muttered:
"If I have to throttle you to-night, you won't think so well of my good-nature."
He laughed again, as if there had been something amusing in the thought, and finished his meal with as much dispatch as if some important business awaited its completion.
But when all was done, he had only to resume his silent watch, varying it by pacing up and down the narrow cell, and performing a variety of gymnastic feats, which seemed an unnecessary waste of muscle and strength.
So the afternoon wore by. The sunset came in; its faint gold streamed across the floor, and attracted the prisoner's eye. He rose, stretching out his hands as if to grasp it.
"This looks like freedom," he muttered. "It's a warning."
The superstition appeared to gratify him, and he remained in the same position until the brightness faded, and the gray shadows of twilight began to fill the room.
"It's gone," he said; "so much the better; I shall follow all the sooner."
He sat down again and waited. His restlessness and impatience had disappeared; a strong determination settled upon his face. He looked prepared for any emergency, and was ready to catch at any chance, however desperate, which might aid his plans.
The lamp in the corridor had been lighted while he sat there; the light struggled through the grating over the door, and played across the room among the shadows cast by the bars.
There he sat, listening to every sound from without with the stealthy quiet of a panther that sees his prey and is prepared to spring.
An hour might have passed before the jailer's heavy tread again sounded upon the pavement; he was whistling a merry tune, that rung strangely enough among those gloomy corridors and darkened cells.
When the prisoner heard the step pause before his door, he took from his bed the thick woolen blankets which lay upon it and, grasping them in his hand, crept quietly behind the door.
The key turned in the lock, the heavy door swung upon its hinges with a sound so mournful and ominous, that had the man who entered been at all imaginative, he might have taken it for a warning. But he passed on, interrupting his song tocall out something in a cheerful voice, but the prisoner did not answer.
"He must be asleep," muttered the jailer. "Well, well, poor chap, he hain't much else to do!"
He moved toward the bed, saying:
"Here, wake up, lazybones, and eat your supper before it gets cold."
The door swung slowly to its latch, but he did not heed the warning; a step sounded behind him, but before he could turn or cry out, the heavy blanket was thrown over his head, almost smothering him in its folds, and an iron grasp crushed him down upon the floor.
"Lie still, or I'll murder you," whispered a stern, hard voice.
The jailer's only response was a half-choked gurgle in his throat; whatever his courage or strength might have been, he was entirely powerless.
The prisoner continued his preparations with the utmost quiet; bound the unfortunate man to the iron bedstead, and so completely enveloped him in the blanket, that there was not the slightest hope of his extricating himself.
Stealthily the prisoner moved to the door, and looked down the corridor dimly lighted by a lamp at the further end. No one was stirring; at that hour the people employed in the jail were at their supper, as the man well knew, so that he found little risk of being observed.
He locked the door behind him, put the keys in his pocket, to be flung away when once beyond the walls, and walked rapidly but silently down the passage.
He was perfectly familiar with every winding and outlet of the prison, and moved hurriedly along through the shadows, down the stairs, along a back passage, where no guard was stationed as it communicated directly with the kitchens, and reached the outer door.
There he paused an instant, to be certain that he had made no mistake, looking about with as much composure as though he had been already beyond the danger of pursuit.
He had been in more terrible positions than that; had listened to the infuriated shouts of a mob thirsting for his life; had seen the body of a companion swung from a treebefore his very eyes; and yet, amid all the horror and terror, had preserved his courage and presence of mind sufficiently to make his way among the very men who were hunting him down with the fury of bloodhounds.
An hour passed. The jailer in the dark cell had managed, with his teeth and nails, to enlarge a rent in the blanket sufficiently to extricate his head. His feet were pinioned, but he crept along the pavement to the door, and beat heavily against the bars to summon assistance from without; but nothing answered, save the echo of his frantic cries and the sharp blows upon the barred oak.
Away out upon a little eminence, that still from the distance commanded a view of the prison, stood the escaped criminal, casting a last glance back upon the weather-stained walls. He lifted his hand with a gesture of mockery and exultation, plunged down the hill, and was lost amid the dense woods that spread out for miles beyond.
THE DUEL.
Mr. Waring's old housekeeper was ill—a most unusual misfortune to befall her, and one which she could not at first either realize or believe. She struggled against this sudden malady with all the energy and obstinacy of her nature; but she was at length forced to take to her bed and let the fever have its course, while she grumbled and snarled at every mortal who approached, and gave the poor girl who was obliged to take care of her a precious life indeed.
But while the old lady lay snapping and rabid with fever, affairs in the house did not go on smoothly at all, and nervous Mr. Waring nearly fretted himself into a fever which almost equaled that which had taken such sharp hold of his rebellious housekeeper.
Margaret was busy with her own troubles; and, besides, she was affected with that horror of domestic matters, which,I am sorry to say, is so common among my youthful country-women, and entirely neglected to interest herself in the domestic annoyances that beset them.
In the mean time the servants ran riot below stairs, and, as several of them were new-comers, belonging to the Celtic race into the bargain, they took such advantage of the housekeeper's absence that it soon became doubtful whether they would condescend to prepare meals for any portion of the family except that which reigned in the kitchen.
Mr. Waring sent for Miss Chase to his room for consultation. The lady was all sweetness and affability, declared her willingness to do every thing in her power to restore the household to order, but more than hinted that Margaret would not permit her to interfere.
Of course the old gentleman was in a sad way, but poor Meg's health had become so delicate that he did not venture to speak with her upon the subject; and the only thing he could do was to listen favorably to any proposal which Miss Chase made.
"I will go down to town this very morning," she said, "and I am very certain that I shall return with a woman perfectly competent to take charge of your household."
When she saw how Mr. Waring brightened at that information, she added another touch of comfort:
"I have the address somewhere of a woman who once lived for a time with Mrs. Pierson. If I can find her, she will suit you admirably."
The matter was satisfactorily arranged. Mr. Waring began to look upon Sybil as a sort of guardian-angel; and she bade him good-morning with her sweetest smile to make preparations for her expedition.
Sybil returned from the city that night accompanied by a respectable elderly female, who set about her duties in such a quiet, understanding way that everybody was delighted and something like peace restored.
Of course the old housekeeper grumbled more than ever, and was prepared to consider the stranger the most abominable of her sex; but no one paid much attention, and, as every spasm of rage only increased her fever, and she was quite incapable of controlling her temper, there seemed everyprobability that placid Mrs. Brown would hold the reins of government in her chubby fingers for some time to come.
And now events began to thicken about that once cheerful house on the river, and those miserable young beings were urged forward to the last act of anger and injustice which should consummate their misery. The net which Sybil had woven had been slowly and securely drawn about them, and now the opportunity was offered which completed the work she had so skillfully arranged.
The estrangement between Laurence and Margaret was daily gaining strength. Laurence began really to believe that he hated her, and the fascination which Sybil had thrown about him became enthralling. He came to the house now merely to hold long, confidential conversations with her, and from every one he retired more completely bewildered and enslaved.
He had quarreled with Hinchley, although the young man remained at the house as his uncle's invited guest. He was deeply pained by the state of affairs, and still hoped to reunite his cousin and friend.
It might have been a fortnight after the installation of Mrs. Brown when Sybil and Laurence were walking in the shrubbery at some distance from the house.
They saw Hinchley pass down a neighboring path in full view of the spot where they stood, although he was unconscious of their presence. Laurence muttered bitter execrations against the intruder; and while Sybil was soothing him, they saw the new housekeeper go cautiously down the path and join Hinchley. She gave him a note and stole away again.
"I understand now," whispered Laurence. "She is made a medium of communication between that man and Margaret. She shall tell me the truth, or I will annihilate her."
He drew Sybil forward and stood directly in the path as Mrs. Brown approached. When she saw them, the woman started back with every evidence of fear and confusion; but Laurence grasped her roughly by the arm.
"You gave that man a note from Miss Margaret," he said.
The woman began to cry at once.
"Oh, sir, don't make me lose my place! I couldn't refuse the young lady! Do speak a word for me, Miss Chase. I mean to be faithful. I didn't mean any harm."
"And you have carried notes between them before?" demanded Laurence.
"I didn't know it was wrong—indeed I didn't. Tell him I am an honest woman, Miss Chase."
"Go into the house, Brown," said the lady, coldly. "I am disappointed in you."
Laurence released her arm, and she darted away wringing her hands in sad distress. Laurence made a step toward the place where Hinchley stood reading the letter with a look of doubt and astonishment.
"Stop," whispered Sybil. "What are you going to do?"
"Take that letter—know the truth."
She attempted to plead with him, but he pushed her aside and strode toward Hinchley. The young man looked up, startled at his unexpected approach, and made a movement to conceal the note in his hand.
"Give me that letter!" exclaimed Laurence, in a hoarse voice.
"A very singular demand, sir," returned Hinchley, coldly.
"I will have it—the proof of your treachery and hers—you miserable coward!"
He sprung forward, seized Hinchley in his infuriated grasp, and a short but severe struggle took place. At last, Laurence flung his opponent back and seized the note.
"Scoundrel!" exclaimed Hinchley. "Give back that paper."
"Never! I will read it!"
Sybil saw that she must interfere, or Laurence would not be permitted to open the sheet; so she hurried up with hysteric sobs, and threw her arms about Hinchley.
"No violence!" she sobbed. "Oh, don't quarrel, Mr. Hinchley, don't."
While he vainly tried to extricate himself from her hold, Laurence tore open the letter and read it. He would hardly have been human had he not given way to the storm of fury which swept over him.
The writing was Margaret's, the letter signed with her name, and it revealed the story of her wretchedness, her desire to free herself from her engagement, and her belief that she was loved by Hinchley. The note went on to say that heneed have no scruples about seeking her hand, as she was determined never to marry Laurence.
The young man dropped the letter with a groan.
Sybil released Hinchley, whose anger seemed to have changed to pity at the sight of his former friend's distress.
"She never wrote it, Laurence," he exclaimed. "I would pledge my life on it."
"Who then?" he answered. "Is there another woman on earth brazen enough to have written it?"
"How can I tell? But I would stake my life that it is a forgery."
He glanced at Sybil; something in her attitude brought back his old suspicions, but they were so vague, her innocence in the present matter so apparent, that it would have seemed madness to have spoken of them. Again Laurence turned upon him most furiously, and hurled such terrible epithets and charges against him, that no man of courage could have endured them.
Sybil Chase left the two men pale with wrath, and rushed away, not frightened at what she had done, but believing it wiser for her to escape from the scene; for language had been employed on both sides that could only end in apologies or deadly violence. Hinchley was wrought to a pitch of frenzy nearly equal to that which convulsed Laurence.
He grasped eagerly at a defiance which fell from his opponent.
"When you will," he answered. "You will find me always ready to vindicate my honor."
"So be it," returned Laurence. "Before sunset to-night, let your life or mine pay the forfeit; we can not breathe the same air another day."
Before they parted it was settled—angrily settled—that two school friends, men who had been intimate and loving as brothers, should stand face to face, each opposed to his murderer. This is the true word. Call duelling the only resource of wounded honor if you will; it is murder, after all—murder the most atrocious, from its very coolness and premeditation.
Hinchley broke away abruptly, after having regained possession of the fatal letter, and Laurence rushed toward the house to find Margaret, and overwhelm her with his knowledge of her weakness and treachery.
It had been a dark, wretched day to the girl, passed between the sick chamber of her uncle and that of the old housekeeper. Mr. Waring had been seized with one of his violent attacks, and was lying dangerously ill. Exhausted with watching, Margaret found an opportunity to rest, and went down stairs to the library, meeting Sybil Chase in the hall.
"Will you go and sit with my uncle for a while, Miss Chase?" she asked, wearily.
"Certainly," replied Sybil, somewhat flurried after her escape from the garden, but concealing her emotion with her usual success. "You look quite worn out; it would do you good to sleep."
Margaret passed on without vouchsafing a reply; her dislike of the woman had grown into absolute aversion during the past days, and it was with difficulty that she could force herself to receive her advances with common civility.
Margaret entered the library, closed the door and threw herself upon a couch, hoping for a time to forget her distress and bitter feelings in slumber. She fell asleep at once, and was aroused from an incoherent dream by the violent opening of the door, and a hoarse voice called out:
"Margaret—Margaret Waring?"
She started up, confused by the abrupt awakening, and with a vague impression that her uncle had been taken suddenly worse; but she saw Laurence standing before her, livid with passion. Margaret rose at once, and coldly said:
"Mr. Laurence, you will please come into a room which I occupy, somewhat less boisterously."
"I grieve exceedingly to have disturbed your delicate nerves," he replied, with a hoarse laugh; "but I have that to say which will possibly shock them still more."
She gave him a haughty glance, which roused his fury to still greater violence.
"Nothing you could do would shock me," she said. "I am prepared for any thing."
"Then you are prepared to hear that I have discovered your falsehood and treachery! Miserable, cowardly girl, why did you not come frankly and tell me the truth?"
Her pride rose to meet the passion which flamed in his eyes.
"Mr. Laurence," she exclaimed, "I have borne a great deal from you; but you shall not insult me in this house!"
"Why did you not say to me frankly—I detest this marriage?" he continued. "Do you think I would not have freed you at once?"
"I do not know what you mean," she answered, trembling with angry astonishment at his words. "But let me tell you now, I do dread it—loathe the very thought of it."
"So this you wrote to him," he exclaimed. "I have seen the letter! Why, shame on you, Margaret Waring! I would not have believed you thus lost to all womanly pride. What! tell man unsought that you loved him? and you honorably bound to another."
She stared at him in angry surprise—her lips apart, her wild eyes full of scornful incredulity.
"You have been dreaming, or you are crazy," she said.
"Neither the one nor the other; but I know every thing."
"I do not understand you," she replied, relapsing into the haughty coldness which always enraged him more than any bitter words that she could speak.
"Oh, do not add another falsehood to the list!" he exclaimed. "Haven't you perjured your soul enough, already? I tell you that I read the letter you wrote to Ralph Hinchley. I have watched you for weeks; I know the whole extent of your shameful duplicity."
"Stop!" cried Margaret. "I will endure no more! Leave this house, Mr. Laurence, at once, and forever! While we both live, I will never see your face again; my uncle decides this night, between you and me; either he confirms what I now say, or I will leave his house."
"So be it; do not think I regret it! Why, I came here only to expose and cast you off. Your uncle shall see that letter. I will have it, or tear it from Hinchley's heart. When Waring has read that, we shall see what he thinks of his dainty niece."
"Of all this passion I do not comprehend one word; but it wearies me. Go, sir."
"Do you dare deny having written to Ralph Hinchley that you loved him—that you were ready to abandon your engagement and marry him?"
"Oh!" groaned Margaret, almost fainting from a sharp recoil of outraged feeling, "is there no man living who will avenge me on this libeler?"
"He may, perhaps, avenge you; why not?" retorted Laurence; "but answer. You shall answer and confess this duplicity, or blacken your soul with another lie. Did you write to Hinchley?"
"I did," said Margaret; "a note of three lines, asking him to pay a bill for me at Desmond's."
"Margaret! Margaret! this effrontery only makes it more unbearable," he cried. "I will expose you to the whole world."
"Do what you please—say what you choose, but leave this house, and never let me see you again."
"I go willingly. Farewell forever, Margaret! I do not curse; time will do that, and I can wait."
He dashed out of the room, pale and fierce with contending passions, and hurried from her presence.
Margaret stood upright until the door closed, then her hands fell to her side, a low moan broke from her lips, and she dropped senseless upon the couch.
It was near sunset when she came to herself again; Sybil Chase was bending over her, bathing her forehead and using words of tender solicitude, while a little way off stood the new housekeeper, apparently quite overcome with distress.
Margaret pushed Miss Chase away, and would have left the room without a word, but Sybil caught her arm, while a strange light shot into her eyes.
"I must detain you a moment," she said. "Your uncle has been seized with a frightful attack; the physician is with him now."
"What caused it?" demanded Margaret.
"Mr. Laurence was with him," faltered Sybil.
Margaret turned upon her with cold scrutiny.
"Miss Chase," she said, "I believe on my soul that you are at the bottom of all this trouble. I desire you to quit the house at once."
Sybil pleaded, wept, and demanded an explanation, but Margaret broke from her, and hurried out of the room.
"What is to come now?" whispered the woman, goingclose to Sybil, who stood looking after Margaret, and smiling as only women like her can smile.
"She has done exactly what I desired," she answered. "I shall leave this house in an hour; you will go with me."
"But the duel?"
"Oh! that drives me frantic; but I believe Hinchley will be the sufferer—I should go mad else! Pack my things, and meet me at the station in an hour."
She hurried away, without giving the woman time to speak, and left the house at once.
Sybil took her way rapidly through the grounds, crossed the high road, and ran through the fields until she reached a lofty ascent, from whence she could command a view of the broad sandy plain beneath.
She was only just in time; there she stood, and gazed below with the same expression her face had worn upon the night when she watched her husband's frightful death in the wilds of California.
Only a few paces from each other stood Laurence and Ralph Hinchley; each held a pistol in his hand, and even as Sybil looked, one of the seconds gave the word.
There was a simultaneous report, a blinding flash, and when the smoke cleared away, Sybil saw Hinchley stretched upon the ground, the two assistants bending over him, and Laurence standing in his old position.
She heard one of the men say:
"Save yourself, Laurence;" then Hinchley called out:
"Not yet—not yet; it is only my arm; there is no danger. Edward, believe me, Margaret never wrote that letter. Keep her name out of this quarrel. It will yet be explained."
Laurence only replied by a gesture of dissent. The seconds raised the wounded man, bore him to a carriage which was stationed a little way off, placed him upon the seat, and the party drove away.
Laurence stood like a statue, gazing moodily upon the pistol he grasped in his hand.
Sybil hurried down the bank, calling out:
"Laurence! Laurence!"
He turned at her approach, flung the pistol away, and caught her in his arms.
"I am revenged," he said. "I have nothing left in the world but you, Sybil Chase. Oh, say that you love me!"
The long expected moment had arrived, and, regardless of the sins by which that painful bliss had been purchased, Sybil Chase folded her white arms around his neck and gave passionate expression to the wild love that had burned in her heart for years.
Now the great object of her misguided life was attained. She was free from the man who had been a terrible barrier between them. The engagement was broken by her own arts. With all this, why was there so much pain left in her heart? Why did she tremble so violently in the first clasp of his arms?
THE BATTERY.
Several days passed, and more miserable ones never dawned upon the household at Brooklawn.
Gerald Waring was dead. The excitement into which he had been thrown by Laurence's insane story, the passionate denunciations of Margaret, and the unaccountable departure of Sybil Chase had brought on a recurrence of his disease more violent than any sufferings that had preceded, and before noon the next day he was a corpse.
Margaret sat alone in her room, desolate and almost maddened by the events of the past days. Her uncle was dead, and now she stood in the world utterly alone. He was the last of her family, the only human being upon whom she had the slightest claim of kindred save the slight clue of blood that bound her to Ralph Hinchley.
Waring's property, never very extensive, had been heavily mortgaged to gratify his expensive tastes and invalid caprices. Brooklawn must be sold, and after that painful event Margaret must go forth into the world homeless and desolate. Selfish and thoughtless as Waring was, he would have made some provision for his niece, but that he was confident of hermarriage with Laurence, by which she would be placed in a position far beyond all need of assistance. Thus assured, the weak man dismissed the matter entirely from his mind, and thought only of his present comforts.
Margaret had seen Hinchley and learned every thing from him. The truth only aroused her pride more forcibly. There was no relenting in her purpose; though broken, miserable, and beset with poverty, she would have rejected Laurence had he knelt before her pleading for pardon. Her proud heart had been more revolted at the fact that he could doubt her truth than by all the cruelty of his conduct.
Gerald Waring was buried. He had lived in small things, and his life was of little value to any human being, except Margaret. She, poor girl, mourned him greatly; and as the days passed into weeks, and it became necessary for her to think of another home, her loneliness and desolation increased into absolute dejection.
When Hinchley recovered from his wound sufficiently to go out, he visited Margaret several times; but was quite unable to throw any light upon the mystery which surrounded them, save the bare facts of the quarrel and separation.
Sybil Chase had settled herself in comfortable lodgings in New York, and there Laurence visited her daily. With each day his wounded pride grew more sensitive, and his condemnation of Margaret increased. Sybil knew how to strengthen the infatuation which bound him within the spell of her influence, and thus her control became supreme.
Hinchley could not meet Laurence—he knew the utter folly of any attempt at reconciliation. His own feelings toward the unhappy man were those of profound pity. He was certain that Edward loved Margaret—that the only hope of happiness for either in this world lay in a cordial understanding of the truth. Thus he determined to spare no pains in clearing up the utter darkness which enveloped their lives, and in restoring them to the brightness of that early dream which had made life so beautiful to both while it lasted.
Still, though the weeks passed and the beautiful spring deepened into summer, nothing occurred which could give Hinchley the least clue. In his own mind he fairly believed Sybil Chase the author of all that terrible unhappiness, andwith these thoughts there came back a recollection of that night in California, when his life was so nearly sacrificed. He reproached himself for connecting her with those images, but could not drive the fearful thought away. Always, when he recalled that awful struggle, the chamber in the old house, and the quick retribution dealt to his assailant, there rose before him the dim figure of that woman in the distance, and always behind the shrouding shadows he saw the features of Sybil Chase.
Watching and waiting, he neglected all business and every personal interest. He walked the streets, meditating upon those inexplicable occurrences, haunted every spot that Sybil Chase frequented, but all without result; when the day was over he could only return to Margaret, and find her pale, ill, and heart-broken as he had left her.
Some errand connected with that all-engrossing affair carried him, one day, into a street which led to the Battery; he had obtained a clue to the residence of Mrs. Brown, and was following it up with a hope that she might be bribed or frightened into some revelation which would tend to make his course more clear.
A California steamer had just arrived at its wharf, and the eager crowd came surging up the street along which Hinchley was slowly sauntering in a painful revery. He looked with idle curiosity from face to face of the motley throng, glad of any event which would for a moment take his thoughts from the mournful subject which had so long engrossed him.
Suddenly he beheld upon the other side of the way a face which brought him to an abrupt pause, while an exclamation, almost of terror, broke from his lips. After the first glance of uncertainty, the firm, severe look natural to his features passed over them.
The man who had disturbed him so walked by, unconscious of his scrutiny. The face was pale from sickness or confinement, the long beard had been shaven, the dress was altered, but through all the change Hinchley recognized him. That image was too closely connected with the most fearful era in his life ever to be forgotten.
After the first instant of horror and surprise, his active mind centered upon itself; the opportunity at least ofidentifying Sybil Chase with the woman he had seen was offered. What might follow he dared not think of—the hope was too great and joyous in the midst of so much suffering.
He turned and followed the man swiftly; came up to him in a narrow and almost deserted street and laid his hand upon his shoulder. The stranger started like an escaped prisoner who felt the grasp of his pursuers upon him; but when he saw Ralph Hinchley's face, he uttered a cry and endeavored to break away. But the young man held him fast, and a few rapid words reassured the fugitive so much that he walked quietly by his side and listened to him doubtfully, glancing around like a wild animal in fear of pursuit, and ready at the slightest sound to take flight.
"It is useless to deny what I say," was the conclusion of Hinchley's hasty address. "I mean you no harm. Only answer my questions, and you may go."
"Speak out then," returned the man, sullenly; "though I don't know why the deuce I should let a man I never saw before come up and question me in this way."
"You remember me, and did from the first," replied Hinchley, regarding him with keen decision. "Your eyes waver—you are pale, too. This is cowardly. Come, man, you need not be afraid; for any thing I shall do you are safe enough. What I want is the truth, and not even that about yourself."
"Well," replied the man, laughing in a reckless way, "the truth is not difficult to tell about other people, though I am out of practice."
After a little more persuasion, he followed Hinchley on to the Battery, and, sitting down under a tree, they conversed eagerly. Very soon all doubt and fear left the man's face, a stern passion and fierce exultation lit every feature, while from Ralph Hinchley's faded the shadow and gloom that had clouded his countenance for weeks.
THE VALLEY RANCHE.
Sybil Chase was sitting in the apartments which she had taken on leaving Mr. Waring's residence.
Her dress, always simple and elegant, was even more studied and elaborately delicate than usual; the face wore its lightest, fairest look, and one seeing her as she sat gazing down the street, evidently in momentary expectation of some person not yet in sight, would have thought that no anxiety or stern thought had ever found a resting-place in her bosom.
That for which she had toiled and plotted, treading ruthlessly over the hearts and happiness of all who stood in her way, had been gained—in one week she would be the wife of Edward Laurence.
Sybil was expecting him then; he spent the greater portion of each day in her society, and the influence which she had gained seemed constantly to increase.
While she waited there was a low knock at the door. Sybil started up with a beautiful smile of welcome, which changed to a look of surprise when the door opened and only a servant appeared, saying:
"There's a gentleman, ma'am, who wants to see you."
"I am engaged. I told you to admit no one but Mr. Laurence."
"I know it, but he would have me come up; he says he won't keep you a moment."
"Be quick, then," she answered, impatiently.
The man went out and closed the door; but while Sybil was considering who her visitor might be, it was flung open, and Ralph Hinchley stood before her.
She stepped forward with an angry gesture.
"Why have you come here?" she asked. "I do not desire your visits, Mr. Hinchley."
"Nor is it at all probable that I shall ever pay you another, madam; but this one you will have the patience to endure."
"Mr. Laurence will soon be here," she said, haughtily; "possibly you would prefer not to meet him."
"I desire to see him—it is part of my business here; but first, I wish to introduce an old acquaintance of yours."
He went to the door, flung it open, and Sybil beheld a form which she had believed long since cold in the grave, the old cruel light in the eyes, the mocking smile upon the lips—her husband.
She started back with a cry of dreary pain.
"Don't be alarmed, Sybil," he said, quietly advancing toward her. "Of course you are glad to see your 'own, own Philip.' That used to be the term, I think."
"Keep off—keep off!" she shrieked, insane with fear and the suddenness of the shock. "Philip Yates is dead. I saw him hanged. You saw him, also, on the blasted pine, Ralph Hinchley."
"Excuse me," returned Yates; "I ought to know, and I assure you that I am as much alive as either of you. Tom Dickinson, poor fellow, they hung him in my place. He managed to steal my clothes from the wardrobe, hoping the men would take him for me, and help him off. So you really thought it was me they swung up; poor Sybil, what a disappointment! Well, it was natural. Tom and I did look alike, especially when he was on good behavior; but there was a certain manner he never could catch. Still, the people mistook him for me more than once. He was so proud of it, poor Tom. But I wouldn't have thought it of you, Syb—not know your own husband! My darling, that is not complimentary."
She answered by a groan so despairing that it might have softened any heart less steeled against her than those of the two men who looked quietly on.
"No, no, Sybil," he continued; "while Tom was doubling like a fox, and you screaming for some one to pounce on me, I slipped away through the cellar, and into the bush. Why, bless your soul, I was perched just above you on the precipiceall the time, and, if you hadn't made off with the horse, should have got clear, instead of being caught among the rocks like a rat in a trap."
Sybil sunk slowly into a chair while he was giving these revolting details, and, covering her face with both hands, interrupted him only with her faint moans. While she sat thus abject and wounded, Edward Laurence entered the room. He stopped short on the threshold, astonished at the presence of those two men. He looked from one to the other in amazement. Then turning on Hinchley, demanded in stern wrath how he had dared to enter that dwelling. Sybil heard his voice, and made a wild effort to shake off the terror which was crushing her to the earth; but, as she attempted to unvail her face, the smiling look with which Yates stood regarding her made every nerve in her body shrink and shiver.
Laurence glanced at her, and once more turned on Hinchley.
"Why are you here, sir, and who is that man?"
"Hush, hush!" returned Ralph, mournfully. "You will have enough to repent, Edward; be silent now."
Before Laurence could speak, Yates stepped toward Sybil, seized her by the arm, and forced her to stand up.
"Come," he said, "you and I are going away from here."
"I will not move," she moaned, desperately. "Let me go, I say."
Laurence started forward, trembling with indignation, but the man pushed him rudely aside.
"Don't interfere between husband and wife," he said, coldly. "I warn you it won't be safe. You know that, Syb, of old."
"What do you mean?" said Laurence. "Great heavens, Sybil, who is this man?"
She did not answer; in that moment all her duplicity and art failed; she could only moan and turn away her frightened face.
"I am Philip Yates, her husband," answered he. "I have brought my marriage certificate on purpose to prove it."
He took a paper from his pocket and gave it to Laurence, who read it with a confused idea of its import. At last he lifted a hand to his forehead.
"I must be insane," he faltered.
"No," returned Hinchley, "you are just coming back to your senses. That woman, Laurence, is the female I saw in California upon the night when I so narrowly escaped from the Valley Ranche with my life."
"Never you mind that story," interrupted Yates; "that's all gone by. Well, Mr. Laurence, you don't seem to believe us yet; Sybil shall answer for herself."
"I will not speak," she cried. "You may kill me, but I will not open my lips."
"Kill you, my pet? why, I expect years of happiness with you still. We are going back to California, my dear. It will take a long time to repay your loving kindness that night."
"Sybil! Sybil!" groaned Laurence.
"You shall speak," continued Yates. "Tell him your real name; do it, I say!"
He transfixed her with his terrible glance; the old fear and dread came back. She was like a person magnetized against her will.
Without glancing toward Laurence, without being able to move her eyes from that fiery glance, she answered in a low, strange voice.
"I am Sybil Yates. I was his wife—I am his wife."
"Bravo!" exclaimed the gambler, exultingly. "Now, Mr. Laurence, I hope you are satisfied."
The young man did not answer; he could only stand, horror-stricken, upon the brink of the abyss down which he had so nearly plunged.
Hinchley went to the door, and led in the woman who had served for a time as housekeeper at Brooklawn.
"This person," he said, "has a story to tell; luckily, circumstances have placed her quite in my power."
Sybil sprung again to her feet.
"Don't speak!" she cried; "don't speak!"
"I must, my dear," replied the woman, sobbing. "They'll never let me alone if I don't."
"Who wrote the letter Mr. Laurence saw you give me?" demanded Hinchley.
The woman pointed to Sybil.
"It is false!" she exclaimed. "Margaret Waring wrote it."
"Nonsense, Sybil," returned Yates. "What's the good ofkeeping this up? You're found out, and that's the end of it. You thought I was dead, you wanted to marry Mr. Laurence—always did, for that matter—and laid your plans beautifully. Upon my word, I honor you! But, you see, I am inconveniently alive; your old mother has been frightened into telling the truth for once, so there's nothing for it but to get away to the Valley Ranche. The miners have forgot that little affair, and we shall find something brighter than potatoes in the cellar. You know that."
She looked at him with her frightened eyes.
"Don't take on so," he said, with a gleam of feeling. "I always loved you better than you believed."
Sybil shuddered.
"So we'll forget and forgive. I don't mind it if you did bring the vigilance committee down on us that night; Tom and I were both hard on you—it wasn't work for a lady. As for Mr. Hinchley, he ought to go down on his knees and fill your lap with gold. If it hadn't been for her, I tell you, old fellow, you never would have seen daylight again. After all, that woman's a trump. I wouldn't give her up for all the gold in California."
"Sybil," said Laurence, in a grave, low voice, "is this thing true?"
She struggled for voice, and replied, very faintly:
"It is true! God help me, it is true; but I thought he was dead. It was night, and I so terrified that the face was not clear. Oh! if it were only death that he brings instead of these bonds."
Laurence looked on her distress with heavy eyes.
"And Margaret."
She started as if a viper had stung her, then broke into fresh moans, rocking to and fro on her chair.
"If we wronged her—if that letter was not genuine, tell me, that I may offer the poor atonement in my power."
She looked up into his eyes with such anguish, that even Yates seemed troubled.
"Speak the truth, Sybil," he said, "speak the truth, I say; did the young lady write that letter they were talking about?"
Sybil shook her head, murmuring, under her breath, words that no one could understand.
"Speak, Sybil."
"I wrote the letter."
"That's enough—that's like you, Sybil," said Yates, triumphantly, forcing her cold hands from her face, and kissing them till she shuddered all over. "Now you can go, gentlemen. I should like a little private conversation with my wife."
Ralph Hinchley took Laurence by the arm, and led him gently from the room.
A year after this scene, when Yates had gone to California in search of the gold left buried at the ranche, Laurence and Margaret, all the wiser for the bitter experience of the past, stood before the altar of the pretty church near Mr. Waring's homestead, which was to be the resting-place of their future lives. It had been a happy place to them once, and now, with all the painful associations buried in perfect confidence, they turned to it with renewed affection.
Surely, that little country church never witnessed a happier wedding, or sheltered a lovelier bride. In the flush of unchecked love, Margaret had bloomed into something more attractive than mere beauty. The heavy sadness had left her eyes, to be filled with gentle sunshine, her cheek was flushed as with wild roses, and the soft radiance of a heart at rest fell around her, pure as the silvery cloud of her bridal vail which swept over the snow of her garments, clothing her with whiteness from head to foot. The newly married pair went quietly to the home which now became sacred to them both. The ceremony which united their once estranged hearts had endowed them with wealth, and thus it had been in their power to keep that fine old place from the hammer. In after years, the voices of merry children rung through the rose-thickets where Sybil Yates had woven her snares, and a fine-looking couple might have been observed, any fair day, walking arm-in-arm along the walks which that artful woman had once shared with the gentleman; but he had forgotten her in the tranquil happiness of a peaceful life, and her name was blotted out from all his thoughts, for he could not force such company on the gentle image that filled his heart of hearts. On the very day of this wedding, a wild scene was being enacted at the Valley Ranche. Yates and Sybil had that dayentered their old dwelling—he elated with the success of his disguise, which had carried him through vigilance committees and wild groups of gold-seekers, and she a weary, subdued woman, who had outlived even the power of wishing, and this while her hair was bright, and her cheeks smooth with youth. She was aware that Edward Laurence was to be married that day, but even that knowledge failed to disturb the leaden apathy which lay upon her.
The ranche was desolate—an old Indian woman, who remained in the kitchen, received them with more of terror than welcome.
"Don't be frightened, old woman," said Yates. "We shan't stay long to trouble you; only get some supper for Mrs. Yates, and find me some kind of a lamp. I don't like the look of things here."
The old woman went to the other end of the kitchen, in search of a lamp. In passing the window, she saw a crowd of human faces looking in, but said nothing, as hands were uplifted threateningly, and wild eyes glared a warning upon her.
Yates went out, shading the lamp with his hands. He took a large leathern sack from some luggage which had been cast down in the hall, and went cautiously into the cellar. Entering the inner cave, he removed the barrels, and, opening the iron chest, gathered up handfuls of gold and packages of dust, which he crowded roughly down into the bag. He was busy with a larger package than had yet presented itself, when a hand was laid heavily on his shoulder. Yates started back, dragging the leather sack with him into the midst of a crowd of armed men who filled the cellar. Some of these men had been watching him all day, and now he was in their power—utterly, hopelessly.
It was horrible, the stillness of that moment. Those fierce men spoke in whispers. They dragged the victim forth in silence, but the tramp of their feet fell horribly on the night. Half an hour after Yates received that lamp from the trembling hands of the Indian woman, exulting in his safety, a branch of the blasted pine bent low with a second victim, and Sybil was indeed a widow.
At this day, the Valley Ranche is inhabited by the solitarywoman, who, with her Indian servant, lives alone in the old house. She still sits by the chamber-window, and looks out upon the bridle-path leading from the mines, but with the dull apathy of a spirit which has lost every thing. Gray hairs have crept thickly into those rich, golden tresses, and the remnants of her beauty are mournful to look upon. One thing is remarkable. She never receives a letter, and never asks a question about any one in the Atlantic States. Sybil Yates is indeed a widow now.
THE END.
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To be followed by the Biographies of—
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