



Produced by Victorian/Edwardian Pictorial Magazines,
Jonathan Ingram, Josephine Paolucci and the Online
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THE

STRAND MAGAZINE

_An Illustrated Monthly_

Vol. 5, Issue. 29.

May 1893

[Illustration: "EXCUSE OUR INTRUSION, MADAM."

(_In the Shadow of the Sierras._)]




IN THE SHADOW OF THE SIERRAS

BY IZA DUFFUS HARDY.


Barbara Thorne sat leaning her head on her hand, looking at a photograph
that lay on the table beneath her eyes. She had not intended to look for
_that_ when she pulled out a dusty drawer full of old letters, papers,
and account-books to arrange and set in order. But when in the course of
her rummaging and tidying she found that picture in her hand, she paused
in her task. The neglected drawer stood open, with its dusty packets and
rolls of faded papers. Barbara had forgotten it and all else around her.

She sat there lost in memory, her eyes fixed upon the "counterfeit
presentment" of the face that once had been all the world to her. She
did not often think of Oliver Desmond now; to think of him meant only
pain--pain of outraged pride and wounded love. She had outgrown the time
when she could not tear her thoughts from him, when his face was in her
"mind's eye" by night and day, and yet she shrank with a shuddering
revolt of anguish from those pictures of the past which she could not
banish. For the memory that was the locked-up skeleton of her life--that
rattled its dead bones to-day as Oliver Desmond's pictured eyes smiled
into hers--was a cruel memory indeed, of grief and wrong and bitter
humiliation, of broken troth and shattered faith, insulted love, and
crushed and martyred pride. The blow that had rankled like iron in her
heart for years was base and cowardly as a stab in the back from the
hand that should have shielded and cherished her.

How strange it seemed to her to-day to think she had outlived it
all--the love, the anguish, the bitterness, which once had seemed
undying! There was nothing to disturb her reverie; she was alone, had
been alone all day, and yet not lonely, albeit this solitary Californian
ranch, in a secluded valley amongst the foot-hills of the Sierras, was a
lonesome-looking place enough. But Barbara had been too busy all day to
sit down and realize the loneliness. She lived on the Saucel Ranch with
her married brother and his wife, she and her sister-in-law doing all
the housework between them--servants or "helps" being unattainable
luxuries in those parts. Mr. and Mrs. Thorne had gone out for all the
day and all the night; a nervous woman might well have shrunk from being
thus left alone and unprotected in such a place; but if Barbara had ever
been troubled with the nineteenth century malady of "nerves," she had
lived it down since she had taken up her abode on the Saucel Ranch. Her
hands were always full. Even now, her day's task done, she had set
herself to "improve the shining hour" by "tidying-up" the bureau drawer,
in which she had come across the photograph of Oliver Desmond.

It was rarely indeed that Barbara Thorne indulged in reverie by day; the
night was her time for silence and thought; but now she was so lost in
the train of memories aroused by the sight of his portrait--memories
which had lost their sharpest sting, and only hurt her now with a dull
ache--she had even forgotten that an hour ago she had been looking out
for somebody--somebody who would never allow the long, lonely day to
pass without coming to see her!

