CHAPTER XVII.

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 precipice all 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 of keeping 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 day entered 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 solitary woman, 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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Transcriber's Notes:

Added table of contents.

Italics are represented with _underscores_, bold with =equal signs=.

Replaced oe ligature with oe in "Richard Coeur de Leon" for text edition; ligature retained in HTML version.

Retained questionable spellings (e.g. "wierd," "brightning") from the original.

Page 11, moved quote from after "she answered;" to after "he is at the mines."

Page 14, added missing quote after "can not urge you."

Page 29, removed duplicate "the" from "through the the valley."

Page 39, changed "except" to "expect" in "I expect you to act like a sensible woman."

Page 57, added missing quote after "would not be persuaded."

Page 105, added missing quote before "I shall leave this house."

Page 113, added missing quote after "Waring wrote it."

Beadle's Dime Biographical Library ad, added missing period after Trafalgar.

Immortal Crockett ad, changed "Almo" to "Alamo."

Beadle's Dime Books / Beadle's Dime Novels ad, normalized punctuation in title listings.