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The Golden Woman
A Story of the Montana Hills
By RIDGWELL CULLUM
AUTHOR OF
"The Way of the Strong," "The Law Breakers,"
"The Trail of the Axe," Etc.
With Frontispiece in Colors
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by Arrangement with GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
Copyright, 1913, by
GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
Published February, 1916
_All rights reserved_
Printed in U. S. A.
[Illustration: "It's the same book, dear, only a different chapter."]
Contents
I. AUNT MERCY 9
II. OVER THE TELEPHONE 20
III. THE PARIAH 26
IV. TWO MEN OF THE WILDERNESS 39
V. THE STEEPS OF LIFE 54
VI. OUT OF THE STORM 73
VII. A SIMPLE MANHOOD 85
VIII. THE SECRET OF THE HILL 96
IX. GATHERING FOR THE FEAST 106
X. SOLVING THE RIDDLE 110
XI. THE SHADOW OF THE PAST 121
XII. THE GOLDEN WOMAN 133
XIII. THE CALL OF YOUTH 149
XIV. A WHIRLWIND VISIT 158
XV. THE CLAIMS OF DUTY 165
XVI. GOLD AND ALLOY 177
XVII. TWO POINTS OF VIEW 187
XVIII. WHEN LIFE HOLDS NO SHADOWS 204
XIX. A STUDY IN MISCHIEF 217
XX. THE ABILITIES OF MRS. RANSFORD 229
XXI. THE MEETING ON THE TRAIL 240
XXII. A MAN'S SUPPORT 246
XXIII. THE BRIDGING OF YEARS 258
XXIV. BEASLEY PLAYS THE GAME 273
XXV. BUCK LAUGHS AT FATE 286
XXVI. IRONY 301
XXVII. THE WEB OF FATE 313
XXVIII. A BLACK NIGHT 325
XXIX. BEASLEY IN HIS ELEMENT 334
XXX. THE MOVING FINGER 356
XXXI. THE JOY OF BEASLEY 364
XXXII. STRONGER THAN DEATH 374
XXXIII. THE TEMPEST BREAKS 389
XXXIV. THE EYES OF THE HILLS 402
XXXV. FROM OUT OF THE ABYSS 407
XXXVI. THE CATACLYSM 420
XXXVII. ALONE-- 427
XXXVIII. --IN THE WILDERNESS 432
XXXIX. LOVE'S VICTORY 439
The Golden Woman
CHAPTER I
AUNT MERCY
An elderly woman looked up from the crystal globe before her. The
sound of horse's hoofs, clattering up to the veranda, had caught her
attention. But the hard, gray eyes had not yet recovered their normal
frigidity of expression. There were still traces in them of the
groping mind, searching on, amidst the chaos of a world unseen. Nor
was Mercy Lascelles posing at the trade which yielded her something
more than her daily bread. She had no reason for pose. She was an
ardent and proficient student of that remote science which has for its
field of research the border-land between earthly life and the
ultimate.
For some moments she gazed half-vacantly through the window. Then
alertness and interest came back to her eyes, and her look resumed its
normal hardness. It was an unlovely face, but its unloveliness lay in
its expression. There was something so unyielding in the keen,
aquiline nose and pointed chin. The gray eyes were so cold. The
pronounced brows were almost threatening in their marking and
depression. There was not a feature in her face that was not handsome,
and yet, collectively, they gave her a look at once forbidding, and
even cruel.
There was no softening, there never was any softening in Mercy
Lascelles' attitude toward the world now. Years ago she may have given
signs of the gentler emotions of her woman's heart. It is only
reasonable to suppose that at some time or other she possessed them.
But now no one was ever permitted beyond the harsh exterior. Perhaps
she owed the world a grudge. Perhaps she hoped, by closing the doors
of her soul, her attitude would be accepted as the rebuff she intended
to convey.
"Is that you, Joan?" she demanded in a sharp, masterful tone.
"It certainly is, auntie," came the gentle, girlish response from the
veranda.
The next moment the door of the little morning-room opened, and a tall
girl stood framed in its white setting.
Joan Stanmore possessed nothing whatever in common with her aunt. She
was of that healthy type of American girl that treats athletics as a
large part of her education. She was tall and fair, with a mass of
red-gold hair tucked away under the mannish hat which was part of her
dark green, tightly-fitting riding habit. Her brow was broad, and her
face, a perfect oval, was open and starred with a pair of fearless
blue eyes of so deep a hue as to be almost violet. Her nose and mouth
were delicately moulded, but her greatest beauty lay in the exquisite
peach-bloom of her soft, fair skin.
Joan Stanmore was probably the handsomest girl in St. Ellis City, in a
suburb of which she and her aunt lived. She was certainly one of the
most popular girls, in spite of the overshadowing threat of an aunt
whom everybody disliked and whom most people feared. Her disposition
was one of serene gentleness, yet as fearless and open as her
beautiful eyes suggested. She was of a strongly independent spirit
too, but, even so, the woman in her was never for a moment jeopardized
by it; she was never anything but a delightful femininity, rejoicing
wholesomely in the companionship of the opposite sex.
She and her aunt had lived for five years in this suburb of St. Ellis.
They had left New York for the southwest because the profession of
the elder woman had gained unpleasant notoriety in that city of
contradictions. The calling of the seer had appealed well enough to
the citizens individually, but a wave of moral rectitude, hurling its
municipal government spluttering upon a broken shore of repentance,
had decided it to expurgate such wickedness from its midst, lest the
local canker become a pestilence which might jeopardize the immortal
soul of the citizen, and, incidentally, hand the civic control over to
the opposition party.
So aunt and orphaned niece had moved westward, seeking immunity in a
region where such obscure professions were regarded with a more
lenient eye. Joan had little enough sympathy with her relative's
studies. She neither believed in them, nor did she disbelieve. She was
so young, and so full of that vitality which makes for the wholesome
enjoyment of life, as viewed through eyes as yet undimmed by the
bitterness of experience, that she had neither time, place, nor
serious thought for such matters. Her only interest, if interest it
could be called, was an occasional wonderment at the extent of the
harvest Aunt Mercy reaped out of the credulity of the merchant and
finance-princes of the city. This, and the state of her aunt's health,
as pronounced by Dr. Valmer, were the only things which ever brought
such matters as "crystal gazing" and scientific astrology into her
mind. Otherwise horoscopes, prognostications, warnings, omens, passed
her by as mere words to raise a smile of youthful derision at the
expense of those who heaped money for such readings into the seer's
lap.
Joan was in no way dependent upon her aunt. Living with her was a
matter of personal choice. Mercy Lascelles was her only relative for
one thing, and the elder woman being a lonely spinster, it seemed only
right that Joan should make her home under her scarcely hospitable
roof. Then, too, there was another reason which influenced the girl.
It was a purely sentimental reason, such as at her age might well
appeal to her. A whisper had reached her to the effect that, hard and
unsympathetic as her Aunt Mercy was, romance at one time had place in
her life--a romance which left her the only sufferer, a romance that
had spelt a life's disaster for her. To the adamantine fortune-teller
was attributed a devotion so strong, so passionate in the days of her
youth that her reason had been well-nigh unhinged by the hopelessness
of it. The object of it was her own sister's husband, Joan's father.
It was said that at the moment of his death Mercy Lascelles' youth
died too. All softness, all gentleness passed out of her life and left
her the hard, prematurely aged woman she now was.
As a consequence Joan felt that her duty lay beside a woman whom Fate
had treated so ill; that duty demanded that an effort must be made to
bring a little brightness into so solitary and loveless a life.
So her choice was made. And as she grew accustomed to the stern
companionship she often found herself wondering how a woman of such
curiously harsh disposition could ever have been the victim of such a
passion as was attributed to her. It was almost inconceivable,
especially when she tried to picture the father, whom she had never
known, but who was reputed to be such an intensely human man, so full
of the many frailties of a Wall Street gambler.
Joan now saw the crystal lying in her aunt's lap. She saw, too, the
fevered eyes lifted to her face. And with an uncomfortable feeling of
disaster pending she moved across to the window-seat and flung herself
upon the pile of down cushions.
"I do hope you're not--not seeing things again, auntie," she said in
an anxious voice, her eyes fixed resentfully upon the detested
crystal. "You know Dr. Valmer forbade you--practicing for at least six
months," she added warningly.
"Dr. Valmer's a fool," came the sharp retort.
The girl flushed. It was not the words: it was the manner that could
so hurt. But this time she felt it her duty to continue. Her aunt's
health was seriously affected, and the doctor had warned her
personally about it.
"I dare say he is, auntie," she protested. "But you pay him good
dollars for being one. What is the use of it if you don't take his
advice?"
Just for a second a peculiar look flashed into Mercy's eyes. Then she
allowed them to drop to the crystal in her lap.
"Go and change your habit. It will keep you busy on your own affairs.
They need all your attention--just now."
The rudeness left Joan untouched. She was too seriously concerned.
Mercy Lascelles had only recently recovered from a bad nervous
breakdown, the result, so Dr. Valmer, the specialist, assured her, of
the enormous strain of her studies. He had warned Joan of the danger
to her aunt's mental balance, and begged her to use every effort to
keep her from her practice. But Joan found her task well-nigh
impossible, and the weight of her responsibility was heavy upon her.
She turned away to the window and gazed out. She was feeling rather
hopeless. There were other things worrying her too, small enough
things, no doubt, but sufficiently personal to trouble her youthful
heart and shadow all her thought with regret. She was rapidly learning
that however bright the outlook of her life might be there were always
clouds hovering ready to obscure the smiling of her sun.
She looked at the sky as though the movement were inspired by her
thought. There was the early summer sun blazing down upon an already
parching earth. And there, too, were the significant clouds, fleecy
white clouds for the most part, but all deepening to a heavy, gray
density. At any moment they might obscure that ruddy light and pour
out their dismal measure of discomfort, turning the world from a
smiling day-dream to a nightmare of drab regret.
Her mood lightened as she turned to the picture of the garden city in
which they lived. It was called a garden city, but, more properly, it
was a beautiful garden village, or hamlet. The place was all hills and
dales, wood-clad from their crowns to the deepest hollows in which the
sandy, unmade roads wound their ways.
Here and there, amidst the perfect sunlit woodlands, she could see the
flashes of white, which indicated homes similar to their own. They
were scattered in a cunningly haphazard fashion so as to preserve the
rural aspect of the place, and constructed on lines that could under
no circumstances offend the really artistic eye. And yet each house
was the last word in modernity; each house represented the
abiding-place of considerable wealth.
Yes, there was something very beautiful in all this life with which
she was surrounded. The pity of it was that there must be those clouds
always hovering. She glanced up at the sky again. And with a shiver
she realized that the golden light had vanished, and a great
storm-cloud was ominously spreading its purplish pall.
At that moment her aunt's voice, low and significant, reached her from
across the room. And its tone told her at once that she was talking to
herself.
"You fool--you poor fool. It awaits you as surely as it awaits
everybody else. Ride on. Your fate awaits you. And thank your God it
is kept hidden from your blinded eyes."
Joan started.
"Auntie!"
A pair of cold, gray eyes lifted to her face. The shaking, bony hands
clutched nervously at the crystal. The eyes stared unseeingly into the
girl's face for some moments, then slowly the fever crept into them
again--the fever which the doctor had warned Joan against.
"Oh, auntie, put--put that away." Joan sprang from her seat and ran to
the other's side, where she knelt imploringly. "Don't--don't talk so.
You--frighten me." Then she hurried on as though to distract the
woman's attention. "Listen to me. I want to tell you about my ride. I
want to tell about----"
"You need tell me nothing. I know it all," Mercy broke in, roughly
pushing the clinging hands from about her spare waist. "You rode with
young Sorley this morning--Dick Sorley. He asked you to marry him. He
told you that since he had known you he had made a small fortune on
Wall Street. That he had followed you here because you were the only
woman in the world for him. He told you that life without you was
impossible, and many other foolish things only fitted for the
credulity of a young girl. You refused him. You regretted your refusal
in conventional words. And he rode away, back to his hotel, and--his
fate."
The girl listened breathlessly, wondering at the accuracy of this
harsh recapitulation of the events of her morning ride. But as the
final words fell from the seer's lips she cried out in protest--
"Oh, auntie. His fate? How? How? What do you mean? How do you know all
this?"
Joan had risen to her feet and stood eyeing her aunt in wonder and
amazement. The elder woman fondled her crystal in her thin hands. A
look akin to joy suddenly leapt into her burning eyes. Her lips were
parted so that they almost smiled.
"It is here, here. All here," she declared exultingly. "The mandates
of Fate are voiced amongst the stars, and the moving hand delineates
unerringly the enactments--here--here." She raised the crystal and
gazed upon it with eyes alight with ecstasy. "It is for the eye to
see, and for the mind to read. But the brain that comprehends must
know no thought of human passions, no human emotions. There is nothing
hidden in all the world from those who seek with the power of heart
and brain."
Joan's amazement passed. It was replaced by something like horror and
even terror as she listened. To her the words were dreadful, they
spoke of the woman's straining brain, and her thoughts flew to the
doctor's verdict. Was this the madness he had feared? Was this the
final crash of a brain driven to breaking-point? The questions flew
through her mind only to be swept aside by the recollection of what
her aunt had told her of her morning ride. It was true--true. Every
word of it. Where could the insanity lie? No--no. It could not be.
But--but--such a power!
Her thoughts were cut short. Again her aunt was speaking. But now her
voice had once more resumed its customary harshness. The fire had died
out of her eyes. Again the dreaded crystal was lying in her lap,
fondled by loving fingers. And something approaching a chuckle of
malice was underlying the words which flowed so rapidly from her thin
lips.
"Haven't you learned yet? Can't you read what the hand of Fate is
trying to point out to your blinded eyes? Did not the man Cahusac ask
you to marry him? Did not you refuse him? And did not he die of
typhoid within two weeks of committing that foolishness? And Charlie
Hemming. He dared to make love to you. What then? Didn't he make a
fortune on the Cotton Exchange? Didn't he tell you that it was you who
brought him his luck? Luck? Your luck is disaster--disaster disguised.
What happened? Hemming plunged into an orgie of riotous living when
you refused him. Didn't he squander his fortune, bolt to Mexico, and
in twelve months didn't he get shot as a rebel and a renegade, and
thus add himself to the list of the victims of your--so-called
'luck'? Luck! Oh, the madness, the blindness of it!"
The woman's passionate bitterness had lost all sense of proportion.
She saw only through her straining nerves. And the injustice of it all
brought swift protest to Joan's lips.
"You are wrong. You are cruel--bitterly, wickedly cruel, auntie," she
cried. "How am I responsible? What have I done?"
In an instant the gray eyes were turned upon her with something akin
to ferocity, and her voice rang with passion.
"Wrong? Cruel? I am stating undeniable facts. I am telling you what
has happened. And now I am going to tell you the result of your
morning's ride. How are you responsible? What have you done? Dick
Sorley has gone to his fate as surely as though you had thrust a knife
through his heart."
"Aunt! How--how dare----?"
"How dare I say such things? Because I am telling you the truth--which
you cannot bear to face. You must and shall hear it. Who are you to
escape the miseries of life such as we all have to suffer? Such as you
have helped to make _me_ suffer."
"Don't--don't!" Joan covered her face with her hands, as though to
shut out the sight of that cruel, working face before her--as though
to shut out of her mind the ruthless accusation hurled at her.
But the seer was full of the bitterness so long stored up in her
heart, and the moment had come when she could no longer contain it
beneath the cold mask she had worn for twenty years. The revelation
was hers. Her strange mind and senses had witnessed the scenes that
now held her in the grip of their horror. They had driven her to the
breaking-point, and no longer had she thought for anything but her own
sufferings, and the injustice that a pariah should walk at large,
unknown to the world, unknown to itself.
"Don't?" The woman laughed mirthlessly. Her thin lips parted, but the
light in her eyes was unrelenting. "I tell you it is so. Dick Sorley
has gone to his fate. Straight to his doom from your side. You sent
him to it. I have witnessed the whole enactment of it here--in this
crystal. You, and you alone, have killed him--killed him as surely as
though you had deliberately murdered him! Hark! That is the telephone
bell ringing----"
She paused as the shrill peal of the instrument rang through the room.
There was a prolonged ringing. Then it broke off. Then again and again
it rang, in short, impatient jerks.
"Go to it, girl. Go and listen to the message. You say I am cruel.
Hear what that senseless thing has to tell you. Listen to the voice at
the other end. It is at the hospital. The doctor is there, and he will
speak to you. And in a ward adjacent, your discarded lover
lies--dead."