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Title: The Golden Woman
A Story of the Montana Hills
Author: Ridgwell Cullum
Release Date: August 7, 2009 [EBook #29628]
Language: English
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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.
* * *
“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 he
r 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 recolle
ction 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.
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