Читать книгу Sybil Chase; or, The Valley Ranche: A Tale of California Life - Ann S. Stephens - Страница 5

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HUSBAND AND WIFE.

Night had come on; the full moon was up, filling the valley with a flood of radiance and lending a mysterious beauty to the scene. As the silver beams shot against the mountain sides, the streaks of quartz and glittering minerals emitted long rays of light that shone so brilliantly the cliffs seemed encircled with flame. Above rose the jagged trunks of the fir-trees, looking like wierd shapes holding counsel upon the summit of the peaks.

At length sounds from without broke the stillness—the tramp of horses, the loud, reckless conversation of coarse men. The watcher in that room only cowered lower into her seat, as if those tones had deprived her of the last gleam of strength which had been her support during the previous hours.

There were voices from the room beneath—drinking songs chanted with such energy that the words were distinctly audible where she sat—the ring of glasses, rude toasts and the tumult in which heedless, hardened men are wont to indulge in the midst of a bacchanalian revel.

Very soon there was a step upon the stairs, which made the woman spring to her feet and throw aside the mantle in which she had been shrouding her face. The door was pushed open and a man entered carrying a candle, which flared uncertainly in the draught from the passage. He did not at first perceive her, and called angrily:

"Sybil! Sybil! where the deuce are you, I say?"

"I am here," she replied, with a coldness and composure of which she had appeared incapable a moment before. "What do you want of me?"

"What is a man likely to want when he comes home tired and hungry, I should like to know?"

"The women are getting supper; it will be ready very soon."

"And what are you doing up here in the dark?"

"This is the room where I usually sit, and it certainly is not dark," she replied, quietly as before, although her hands trembled nervously, and the expression of her eyes betrayed something akin to absolute fear.

"Sitting in the moonlight like a school-girl!" he sneered. "I should think you might have got over your romance by this time."

She did not answer; he approached, and held the light close to her face, with a sneering laugh.

"Who has been here to-day?" he asked. "Now, don't tell that lie you have ready on your lips. I know there was a party of men here about sunset."

"Some people who wished to stay all night," she replied.

"Why didn't you keep them?"

"I did not suppose you would like it, as I knew you would be back with a party from the mines."

"How innocent she is!" he exclaimed, laughing again. "By the powers, Sybil, I have made a mistake! I ought to have put you on the stage. That sort of talent would have made a fortune for us both."

"It is not too late," she said, with a certain eagerness.

"Oh, isn't it? Well, we can talk about that some other time. Just now I want to know what brought that Laurence here?"

She tried to look at him with astonishment, but, actress as she was, her craft failed for once; the lids drooped over her eyes and her lips refused to utter the words she struggled to force upon them.

"Now stop that," said he. "Just tell the truth, or I'll follow him, and he shall have a taste of my bowie-knife before morning. What did he want? Make a short story of it, for I am hungry."

"He had been traveling among the mountains with some friends, and got hurt. They wanted to stay here, but I would not keep them and they went away."

"So far so good! You was afraid I should kill him, eh?"

"Yes," she answered; "but more afraid that he would recognize me."

"Then you didn't speak to him?"

"No; he had fainted. I was not likely to make myself known to any of my former friends," she added, bitterly.

"As Phil Yates the gambler's wife? No, I suppose not. Well, he is gone, so let the matter rest. Come, you're a rather good girl. I want you to dress yourself and come down to supper—look your prettiest."

"Who is there?"

"Oh, mostly our set of fellows."

"Then I shall not go down."

"Indeed! I haven't time to make a scene. There are a couple of young chaps fresh from the mines with lots of gold-dust. Now will you come?"

"Will you promise to conduct yourselves like men?"

"Upon my word, she is making terms! Yes, I will. I tell you, Sybil, the gold we win from them to-night will help to shorten your stay here. Think of that, and come."

"I don't wish any supper. I will come down afterward."

"So be it. Put on the pink dress with all those flounces, that I brought you from San Francisco, and look young, and do try and be handsome again."

"Shall we be able to go from here soon, Philip?" she asked.

"Not a day before I please," he replied, irritated by the question. "Show any anxiety, and you shall spend your life here. I promise you it shall not be a pleasant one."

"Have I complained?" she demanded, sinking her voice to a tone of singular sweetness. "Have I not clung to you as few women would have done? Can you blame me for longing to have another home than this?"

"It is natural enough; but patience, Sybil, patience."

"I have had patience," she muttered, while a dangerous light shot into her eyes, "so long—so long!"

"You are a great woman, Sybil, I always admit that; but you know very well that if you left me I should have hunted you like a wolf—aha! my bird!"

The gleam in her eyes died into a look of cold terror; she extended her hand for the light, saying:

"Go down to your guests. I will follow very soon."

He gave her the candle, laughing again in that mocking way.

"Poor Sybil!" he said. "It is hard to have old memories stirred up as they have come upon you this evening."

"Stop!" she said, with a quiet resolution. "You shall not worry my life out, Philip Yates! You know there is a point beyond which I will not bear a word or look. Reach it, and though you murdered me, I would desert you!"

He gave her a glance of careless admiration, but did not annoy her further.

Yates was a remarkable-looking man as he stood there in his rough mountain dress, which was sufficiently picturesque in effect to atone for the coarseness of its materials and make.

He could not have been over thirty-five—very possibly not so much; but a life of reckless dissipation had long ago worn the youth out from his face. He had once been handsome—was so still, in spite of his heavy, undressed beard and the desperate expression of his features. He was tall and remarkably well formed, with sinewy limbs and a full, broad chest. The exposure and action which he had experienced in that wild California existence had increased his manly beauty in strength and proportion, to make amends for sweeping the delicacy and refinement from his face. The eyes were gray, not prominent, usually half vailed by the lids, with a cold, quiet expression which could warm into eagerness or flame with passion, but were utterly incapable of any thing like softness or sensibility. The lower part of the face was hidden by the flowing beard of a rich chestnut brown; but the massive contour of the under jaw, the firm-set mouth, betrayed enough to have justified a physiognomist in ascribing to him the hard, reckless character which in reality belonged to him.

Without again addressing his wife, he left the room. She heard him whistling an opera air—some reminiscence of the old life—as he descended the stairs, and the notes carried her back to the pleasant existence which had been hers for a season, and from which that man had so ruthlessly dragged her.

The light which kindled in her eyes was ominous; the expression of her face, could he have seen it, might have awakened a deeper distrust in his mind than had ever before troubled him. It would have justified a fear for his personal safety. There was all that and more in the single glance which she cast into the gloom.

No murmur escaped her; she did not even sigh, as a weaker or gentler woman would have done; but, knowing her destiny, looked it full in the face and went forward to meet it without a tear!

She took up the candle and passed into her chamber, proceeding to change her dress and follow her husband's commands in the adornment of her person.

She knew very well what was required of her—a part that she had often before performed at his bidding, and one from which her moral sensibilities did not always shrink. This woman had simply to make herself pleasant and agreeable—to sit by and converse sweetly while those two strangers were cheated of their hard-earned gold at a card-table. She was to bewilder them by her smiles and conversation—nothing more; and, as I have said, she did not always shrink from this rôle.

Sybil Yates was not a good woman, and yet there was something in her nature which, under other training and circumstances, might have dignified her into a very different person. Her phrenological developments would have puzzled the most devoted lover of that unsatisfactory science. She was capable of great endurance and self-sacrifice, not only to secure her own interests, but she was earnest in the service of any one for whom she felt affection or attachment. Her nature was essentially reticent and secretive; she had a faculty which few women possess, that of waiting patiently and for a long time, in order to attain any object which fastened itself on her desire.

But it is useless attempting any description of the woman's character. It will best develop itself in the course of this narrative, in which it was her fate to act a prominent part.

That she must have loathed the life to which she found herself condemned is certain. Sybil's heart was more depraved than her intellect or her moral character, and any thing like coarseness or open vice was essentially distasteful to her. It was this womanly refinement which had made the presence of her husband a torment. Probably hatred of this man had grown to be one of the strongest feelings in her nature; yet she was kind and forbearing—every thing that even a good and affectionate wife could have been in her domestic life. True, she stood in mortal terror of him—base, physical terror, for he had become degraded beyond belief, and had more than once raised his hand against her in his drunken wrath.

Still she clung to him—put her old life resolutely aside, and looked only forward to the time when he would take her from that dreary wilderness and go out into the world where she had first keenly enjoyed the sweets of refined life.

She had fine talents, a splendid education, and was well endowed for any station in which destiny could have placed her. Let me do her the justice to acknowledge that under better influences she would probably have been simply a far-sighted, diplomatic woman of the world, reducing all about her to obedience by the incomprehensible fascination which made all men who approached her admirers or slaves. Satisfied with her position and influence, the under depths of her nature would have been so little excited, that in all probability she herself would have been forever unconscious of the dark traits which lay hidden in her restless heart.

But it was useless to speculate upon what she might have been. She was—alas! for her—Philip Yates's wife, far from any who could have aided her, even if she would have permitted the slightest interposition in her fate. Doomed to obey his commands, she was apparently ready enough to gratify him, and managed, even in that secluded spot, to win all the pleasure and cheerfulness out of her life which it was possible to obtain.

She dressed herself, according to her promise. When her toilet was completed, it was astonishing to see how brilliantly she came out of the cloud which had appeared to envelop her. Her face caught its most girlish expression—the large eyes grew luminous—the smile about her mouth was playful and sweet. Those tresses of billowy hair, woven in luxuriant braids back of her head, would of themselves have relieved her face from any charge of plainness.

This woman put out her candle and turned to the window. For many moments she stood looking out into the glorious night and watching every effect with the sensations an artist could have understood.

Then, in spite of herself, back into the past fled her soul, and the chill waves of memory rushed over her. She flung her white arms aloft, and cried out in her pain. Once more that man's name died on her lips in a passionate echo, which frightened even herself: "Laurence! Laurence!"

A burst of merriment from below recalled her to the present, and the hard destiny which lay before her. With the strong self-command acquired in her strange life, she banished from her features every trace of care; the soft light crept into her eyes again, the pleasant smile settled upon her lips.

She took from the table a thin blue scarf, and, flinging it gracefully over her shoulders, as we see drapery in Guido's pictures, passed down stairs toward the room where her husband and his guests were seated, already, as she could detect by the broken words which reached her ear, occupied with the fatal games which had driven so many men to ruin within those very walls.