Читать книгу Sybil Chase; or, The Valley Ranche: A Tale of California Life - Ann S. Stephens - Страница 6

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TWO CONFEDERATES, IN COUNCIL.

Philip Yates and his wife were sitting upon the veranda of their house one pleasant evening, some time after the events described in the last chapter.

He was in unusually good humor and fine spirits that night. Probably, during the past weeks, his successes had been numerous; and however much his wife might have deplored the cause had she been a woman to feel the sin and degradation, she could but have congratulated herself upon the effect which it produced.

He was smoking and talking at intervals to Sybil, who sat in a low chair at a little distance, looking down the valley with the earnest, absent gaze habitual with her.

"Sing me something, Sybil," he said, at last; "it's deuced dull sitting here alone. I can't see what keeps Tom."

"Do you expect him back to-night?" she asked, indifferently, more as if fearful of offending him by her silence than from any desire of her own for conversation.

"I did, but it is growing so late I begin to think he won't come; it's always the way if one wants a man."

"You have no business on hand?"

"Not to-night; I need him for that very reason. What's the use of a man's smoking his cigar and drinking his glass all alone."

Sybil smiled, not bitterly even, with a sort of careless scorn, which would have irritated the man had he seen it—but her face was partially turned away; he saw only the outlines of her colorless cheek, which took a singular grace and softness in the moonlight.

"Are you going to sing?" he asked, after a moment's silence, broken only by a malediction upon his cigar. "How many times must one ask you to do a thing before you condescend to pay attention?"

She made no answer, but began at once a Spanish song, in a powerful contralto voice, which rung pleasantly through the stillness, as if a score of birds in the neighboring almond thicket had been awakened by the beauty of the night, and were joining their notes in a delicious harmony.

When the song was finished she began another without waiting for him to speak, and for a full half hour she continued her efforts to amuse him, without the slightest appearance of distaste or weariness.

Suddenly, another sound came up through the night—the tread of heavy feet and voices, evidently approaching the house.

"Hush!" said Yates, quickly. "Somebody is coming."

Sybil paused, with the words unfinished upon her lips, and both listened intently.

"It must be Tom," exclaimed Philip; "nobody but he ever whistles like that."

He listened for an instant longer, then called out:

"Hello, I say!"

The echo came back distinctly, then a human voice answered the salutation.

"It is Tom," Yates said. "I hope to the Lord there's somebody with him. I'm frantic to be at work."

Just then several figures became visible in a turn of the path; Yates went down the steps and walked forward to meet them, while Sybil leaned her cheek against the low railing and looked quietly down, humming fragments of the air which her husband had so unceremoniously interrupted.

Yates joined the party, and they stood for a few moments in conversation; then the whole group moved toward the house, Sybil watching them still with that careless yet singular expression which few men could look upon without emotion.

There was no one with the new-comer, except two or three of the men who were employed by Yates and his friend about the place, more probably by way of making a security of numbers than from any actual necessity that existed for their services. These men passed toward another entrance, while Yates and his companion ascended the steps of the veranda.

"Good evening, Mrs. Yates," the man called out.

She answered his greeting civilly enough, but without changing her attitude, and began even whispering the pretty song, as if she found something soothing in the simple words.

"You haven't had any supper, Tom?" Yates asked.

"None, and I am hungry as a wolf."

Yates went to the house door and called vigorously:

"Yuba! Yuba! you old fool, get supper ready at once."

When an answering cry assured him that his summons had been heard and would receive attention, he brought from the hall a japan tray, upon which were placed several bottles and glasses.

"You may as well wet your throat, Tom, while you're waiting for supper; it's deuced warm to-night."

The man assented with a guttural laugh, the two seated themselves near the table on which Yates had placed the waiter, and filled their glasses, clashing them against each other.

"Will you have a little wine, Mrs. Yates?" asked the stranger. "I know how you like it mixed."

But she declined the offer, leaned her head still lower upon the railing, and looked away across the valley where the moonlight played, far off in the very center of the flat, lying so unbroken and silvery that it had the effect of a small lake hidden among the great trees and luxuriant vines.

As the two men sat opposite each other, tilted back in their great wicker-chairs, it was curious to notice the resemblance between them. They might have been taken for twin brothers, yet it was one of those accidental likenesses which one occasionally sees in all countries. There was no tie of blood between them, or any reason for this look of consanguinity. The chances of their reckless lives had thrown them together, a similarity of tastes and a series of mutual benefits preserved the intimacy which had sprung up among the rank weeds of human life.

Dickinson had not the claims to manly beauty which Yates had once possessed, yet his features bore the same type of countenance on a larger, coarser scale; but in form or movement they were so much alike, that when their backs were turned, it would have puzzled even a person who knew them well to have told one from the other.

While they conversed, Sybil did not appear to listen, yet not a word escaped her vigilant ear, and sometimes she turned her face partially, and flashed toward them that strange look which so entirely changed the expression of her countenance.

"But I haven't heard what kept you all this while up at the diggings," Yates was saying, as Sybil turned again toward the table. "I know you haven't been at work—you're too lazy for that, and too wise; fools work, and cute men, like you and I, catch gold easier."

Dickinson laughed, and pulled out an old wallet, rattled the coins which it contained, and held up to view a shot-bag, apparently containing a large quantity of gold dust.

"All from a quiet game under a clump of myrtle bushes," he said, with another laugh.

"But that hasn't kept you all this time."

"No; I was over to Sancher's ranche. I knew there was nothing going on here, and we are apt to get cross when it is stupid—eh, Mrs. Yates?"

"Did you speak?" she asked, as if suddenly aroused by his voice.

"I say Phil and I are not two angels for temper in dull times; do you think so?"

"Oh, yes," she answered, good-naturedly enough; "fallen angels, you know, twice degraded."

The men laughed heartily, and Dickinson gave her a glance of honest admiration; she was evidently a woman for whom he felt sincere respect—the sentiment which a dull rogue has for a clear-headed, acute person whom he is willing to acknowledge as his superior.

"Ah, it's of no use to clash tongues with you," he said. "I learned that a great while ago."

Sybil rose from her seat, and walked slowly down the veranda toward the door, paused an instant, flung back some mocking speech in answer to his words and Philip's laugh, and passed into the house.

"That's a wonderful woman!" exclaimed Dickinson, when she had disappeared through the doorway. "I tell you what, Phil, there ain't three men in California with a head-piece equal to that on her handsome shoulders."

"She's well enough," replied Yates, carelessly; "it would be odd if she hadn't learned a few things since the time she married me, and took to life."

"You be blessed!" retorted Tom. "Her head is a deuced sight longer and clearer than yours. I tell you, a keen woman like that is more than a match for any man."

"She had better not try any thing of that sort with me!" exclaimed Yates, sullenly.

"Nonsense; she doesn't want to! I never saw a woman more devoted to a fellow, or so ready to help him along in every way. I tell you, I'm not very fond of chains or ministers, but I'd get married in a legal way to-morrow if I could find a female like her to yoke myself to."

"Wait till she's my widow, Tom," Yates replied, with a laugh. "Sybil's well enough, but she'd play the deuce, like any woman, if she dared. She knows better than to put on any airs with me. If another sort of man owned her, he'd see stars!"

"Oh, you're cross as a bear to her—I'll say that for you; and you never had any more feeling, Phil Yates—"

"There, Thomas, that will do. Drink before supper never did suit your head—so just hush up!"

"Nonsense; don't let's have any of your confounded sneers. A fellow can't speak without being treated to something of the sort, and I hate it!"

He set his glass down on the table with an energy that made the bottles dance; but Yates only laughed, and Dickinson soon smoked himself into a state of reasonable tranquillity.

Thus much of their conversation Sybil paused in the hall to hear. She lifted her hand and shook it menacingly toward her husband, while the fire kindled and leaped in her blue eyes, rendering them ten times more cruel and ferocious than anger can orbs of a darker color. But, after that momentary spasm of anger, she passed on; and, as she walked slowly back and forth through the silent rooms, the coldness and quiet came back to her face.

"I've a bit of news, Phil," said Dickinson, after a few moments, "and it is worth hearing."

"Tell it then, by all means."

"This isn't just the place. Who knows how many listeners we may have?"

"Fiddlesticks! The men are busy eating, and the women looking at them. There's nobody to listen unless it be Sybil—"

"She never takes the trouble," interrupted Tom. "If we tell her a thing, well and good; if not, she never bothers her head about the matter."

"I believe that is true. But what is your news?"

Dickinson rose and walked toward the hall, to be certain that there was no intruder within hearing; then he returned to the table and drew his chair close to that of his friend.

"It's that which kept me up at the diggings," said he. "I wanted to hear all I could."

"Well?"

"There's a chap over at Scouter's Point that's come on from San Francisco to attend to some claims for Wilmurt's widow. He's sold out her right, and he's got the stuff in his pocket—a good round sum it is, too!"

"Yes," Yates said, quietly, holding his glass up to the moonlight, as if admiring the color of the liquor.

"He is coming on with his guide and servant to our diggings on some business; and there's several chaps who know him mean to take that opportunity to send away a lot of nuggets and dust."

Yates set the glass down quickly, and leaned toward his friend.

"Does he touch these?"

He made a motion as if shuffling a pack of cards; but Dickinson shook his head.

"Not a bit of use. I saw a fellow that knows him well. He's a New York lawyer that came out here on some business, and took up this affair just for the fun of the thing, and so as to have a chance to see the diggings."

"Then what's the use of talking about it," exclaimed Yates, angrily, "if he won't drink or play?"

"I don't know," said Tom, artfully. "I told you of it because I thought you would like to hear. You are always complaining that we never have any adventure, and that you might as well be promenading Broadway for all the sport there is to be found."

Yates whistled an opera air, from beginning to end, in the most elaborate manner. At the close he said:

"When will he be at the diggings?"

"Day after to-morrow, at the latest."

"This is Monday, isn't it?"

"Of course it is."

"I wasn't certain. One fairly loses the day of the week in this confounded desert. Monday be it. On Wednesday he will reach the diggings."

"Yes; he means to stay there a couple of days."

"On Saturday, then, he will pass through the valley."

"Exactly so, Philip. Your arithmetic is wonderful."

"No doubt of it. I may be professor in a college yet!"

"He will have to stop here all night, for he can't leave the diggings before noon. Old Jones asked me if I thought you would keep him."

"What did you say?"

"That you didn't keep a tavern, and that your wife was mighty particular. But if he was a gentleman, I didn't suppose either you or she would send him on after dark."

"No," said Yates; "oh no!"

"There'll be a crowd in the valley," continued Dickinson. "There's more gold been dug these last days than there has in months, and they'll be down to the tents and over here to get rid of it, you may bet your life."

"So be it," returned Yates. "They couldn't dispose of it to more worthy people."

Then they laughed immoderately, as if the words had covered an excellent jest. Before the conversation could be resumed, a dwarfish old Indian woman, who was a miracle of ugliness, appeared at the door and announced that their supper was waiting.

"Come in, Tom," said Yates, rising with the utmost alacrity. "I couldn't eat any dinner for lack of company. You know Sybil picks like a sparrow—and I shall be glad of something myself."

They passed into the house, and, at Dickinson's request, Sybil was summoned to grace the board with her presence. She complied with her customary obedience; but during the repast no allusion was made to the stranger or the ambiguous conversation which had been held on the porch a little while before.