The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills Read online

  Produced by D Alexander and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive)

  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. Thesound of horse's hoofs, clattering up to the veranda, had caught herattention. But the hard, gray eyes had not yet recovered their normalfrigidity of expression. There were still traces in them of thegroping mind, searching on, amidst the chaos of a world unseen. Norwas Mercy Lascelles posing at the trade which yielded her somethingmore than her daily bread. She had no reason for pose. She was anardent and proficient student of that remote science which has for itsfield of research the border-land between earthly life and theultimate.

  For some moments she gazed half-vacantly through the window. Thenalertness and interest came back to her eyes, and her look resumed itsnormal hardness. It was an unlovely face, but its unloveliness lay inits expression. There was something so unyielding in the keen,aquiline nose and pointed chin. The gray eyes were so cold. Thepronounced brows were almost threatening in their marking anddepression. There was not a feature in her face that was not handsome,and yet, collectively, they gave her a look at once forbidding, andeven cruel.

  There was no softening, there never was any softening in MercyLascelles' attitude toward the world now. Years ago she may have givensigns of the gentler emotions of her woman's heart. It is onlyreasonable to suppose that at some time or other she possessed them.But now no one was ever permitted beyond the harsh exterior. Perhapsshe owed the world a grudge. Perhaps she hoped, by closing the doorsof her soul, her attitude would be accepted as the rebuff she intendedto convey.

  "Is that you, Joan?" she demanded in a sharp, masterful tone.

  "It certainly is, auntie," came the gentle, girlish response from theveranda.

  The next moment the door of the little morning-room opened, and a tallgirl stood framed in its white setting.

  Joan Stanmore possessed nothing whatever in common with her aunt. Shewas of that healthy type of American girl that treats athletics as alarge part of her education. She was tall and fair, with a mass ofred-gold hair tucked away under the mannish hat which was part of herdark green, tightly-fitting riding habit. Her brow was broad, and herface, a perfect oval, was open and starred with a pair of fearlessblue eyes of so deep a hue as to be almost violet. Her nose and mouthwere delicately moulded, but her greatest beauty lay in the exquisitepeach-bloom of her soft, fair skin.

  Joan Stanmore was probably the handsomest girl in St. Ellis City, in asuburb of which she and her aunt lived. She was certainly one of themost popular girls, in spite of the overshadowing threat of an auntwhom everybody disliked and whom most people feared. Her dispositionwas one of serene gentleness, yet as fearless and open as herbeautiful eyes suggested. She was of a strongly independent spirittoo, but, even so, the woman in her was never for a moment jeopardizedby it; she was never anything but a delightful femininity, rejoicingwholesomely 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 ofthe elder woman had gained unpleasant notoriety in that city ofcontradictions. The calling of the seer had appealed well enough tothe citizens individually, but a wave of moral rectitude, hurling itsmunicipal government spluttering upon a broken shore of repentance,had decided it to expurgate such wickedness from its midst, lest thelocal canker become a pestilence which might jeopardize the immortalsoul of the citizen, and, incidentally, hand the civic control over tothe opposition party.

  So aunt and orphaned niece had moved westward, seeking immunity in aregion where such obscure professions were regarded with a morelenient eye. Joan had little enough sympathy with her relative'sstudies. She neither believed in them, nor did she disbelieve. She wasso young, and so full of that vitality which makes for the wholesomeenjoyment of life, as viewed through eyes as yet undimmed by thebitterness of experience, that she had neither time, place, norserious thought for such matters. Her only interest, if interest itcould be called, was an occasional wonderment at the extent of theharvest Aunt Mercy reaped out of the credulity of the merchant andfinance-princes of the city. This, and the state of her aunt's health,as pronounced by Dr. Valmer, were the only things which ever broughtsuch matters as "crystal gazing" and scientific astrology into hermind. Otherwise horoscopes, prognostications, warnings, omens, passedher by as mere words to raise a smile of youthful derision at theexpense of those who heaped money for such readings into the seer'slap.

  Joan was in no way dependent upon her aunt. Living with her was amatter of personal choice. Mercy Lascelles was her only relative forone thing, and the elder woman being a lonely spinster, it seemed onlyright that Joan should make her home under her scarcely hospitableroof. Then, too, there was another reason which influenced the girl.It was a purely sentimental reason, such as at her age might wellappeal to her. A whisper had reached her to the effect that, hard
andunsympathetic as her Aunt Mercy was, romance at one time had place inher life--a romance which left her the only sufferer, a romance thathad spelt a life's disaster for her. To the adamantine fortune-tellerwas attributed a devotion so strong, so passionate in the days of heryouth that her reason had been well-nigh unhinged by the hopelessnessof 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' youthdied too. All softness, all gentleness passed out of her life and lefther the hard, prematurely aged woman she now was.

  As a consequence Joan felt that her duty lay beside a woman whom Fatehad treated so ill; that duty demanded that an effort must be made tobring a little brightness into so solitary and loveless a life.

  So her choice was made. And as she grew accustomed to the sterncompanionship she often found herself wondering how a woman of suchcuriously harsh disposition could ever have been the victim of such apassion as was attributed to her. It was almost inconceivable,especially when she tried to picture the father, whom she had neverknown, but who was reputed to be such an intensely human man, so fullof the many frailties of a Wall Street gambler.

  Joan now saw the crystal lying in her aunt's lap. She saw, too, thefevered eyes lifted to her face. And with an uncomfortable feeling ofdisaster pending she moved across to the window-seat and flung herselfupon the pile of down cushions.

  "I do hope you're not--not seeing things again, auntie," she said inan anxious voice, her eyes fixed resentfully upon the detestedcrystal. "You know Dr. Valmer forbade you--practicing for at least sixmonths," 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 couldso hurt. But this time she felt it her duty to continue. Her aunt'shealth was seriously affected, and the doctor had warned herpersonally about it.

  "I dare say he is, auntie," she protested. "But you pay him gooddollars for being one. What is the use of it if you don't take hisadvice?"

  Just for a second a peculiar look flashed into Mercy's eyes. Then sheallowed 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 nervousbreakdown, the result, so Dr. Valmer, the specialist, assured her, ofthe enormous strain of her studies. He had warned Joan of the dangerto her aunt's mental balance, and begged her to use every effort tokeep her from her practice. But Joan found her task well-nighimpossible, and the weight of her responsibility was heavy upon her.

  She turned away to the window and gazed out. She was feeling ratherhopeless. There were other things worrying her too, small enoughthings, no doubt, but sufficiently personal to trouble her youthfulheart and shadow all her thought with regret. She was rapidly learningthat however bright the outlook of her life might be there were alwaysclouds hovering ready to obscure the smiling of her sun.

  She looked at the sky as though the movement were inspired by herthought. There was the early summer sun blazing down upon an alreadyparching earth. And there, too, were the significant clouds, fleecywhite clouds for the most part, but all deepening to a heavy, graydensity. At any moment they might obscure that ruddy light and pourout their dismal measure of discomfort, turning the world from asmiling day-dream to a nightmare of drab regret.

  Her mood lightened as she turned to the picture of the garden city inwhich they lived. It was called a garden city, but, more properly, itwas a beautiful garden village, or hamlet. The place was all hills anddales, wood-clad from their crowns to the deepest hollows in which thesandy, unmade roads wound their ways.

  Here and there, amidst the perfect sunlit woodlands, she could see theflashes of white, which indicated homes similar to their own. Theywere scattered in a cunningly haphazard fashion so as to preserve therural aspect of the place, and constructed on lines that could underno circumstances offend the really artistic eye. And yet each housewas the last word in modernity; each house represented theabiding-place of considerable wealth.

  Yes, there was something very beautiful in all this life with whichshe was surrounded. The pity of it was that there must be those cloudsalways hovering. She glanced up at the sky again. And with a shivershe realized that the golden light had vanished, and a greatstorm-cloud was ominously spreading its purplish pall.

  At that moment her aunt's voice, low and significant, reached her fromacross the room. And its tone told her at once that she was talking toherself.

  "You fool--you poor fool. It awaits you as surely as it awaitseverybody else. Ride on. Your fate awaits you. And thank your God itis kept hidden from your blinded eyes."

  Joan started.

  "Auntie!"

  A pair of cold, gray eyes lifted to her face. The shaking, bony handsclutched nervously at the crystal. The eyes stared unseeingly into thegirl's face for some moments, then slowly the fever crept into themagain--the fever which the doctor had warned Joan against.

  "Oh, auntie, put--put that away." Joan sprang from her seat and ran tothe other's side, where she knelt imploringly. "Don't--don't talk so.You--frighten me." Then she hurried on as though to distract thewoman's attention. "Listen to me. I want to tell you about my ride. Iwant to tell about----"

  "You need tell me nothing. I know it all," Mercy broke in, roughlypushing the clinging hands from about her spare waist. "You rode withyoung Sorley this morning--Dick Sorley. He asked you to marry him. Hetold you that since he had known you he had made a small fortune onWall Street. That he had followed you here because you were the onlywoman in the world for him. He told you that life without you wasimpossible, and many other foolish things only fitted for thecredulity of a young girl. You refused him. You regretted your refusalin conventional words. And he rode away, back to his hotel, and--hisfate."

  The girl listened breathlessly, wondering at the accuracy of thisharsh recapitulation of the events of her morning ride. But as thefinal 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 allthis?"

  Joan had risen to her feet and stood eyeing her aunt in wonder andamazement. The elder woman fondled her crystal in her thin hands. Alook akin to joy suddenly leapt into her burning eyes. Her lips wereparted so that they almost smiled.

  "It is here, here. All here," she declared exultingly. "The mandatesof Fate are voiced amongst the stars, and the moving hand delineatesunerringly the enactments--here--here." She raised the crystal andgazed upon it with eyes alight with ecstasy. "It is for the eye tosee, and for the mind to read. But the brain that comprehends mustknow no thought of human passions, no human emotions. There is nothinghidden in all the world from those who seek with the power of heartand brain."

  Joan's amazement passed. It was replaced by something like horror andeven terror as she listened. To her the words were dreadful, theyspoke of the woman's straining brain, and her thoughts flew to thedoctor's verdict. Was this the madness he had feared? Was this thefinal crash of a brain driven to breaking-point? The questions flewthrough her mind only to be swept aside by the recollection of whather aunt had told her of her morning ride. It was true--true. Everyword 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 hervoice had once more resumed its customary harshness. The fire had diedout of her eyes. Again the dreaded crystal was lying in her lap,fondled by loving fingers. And something approaching a chuckle ofmalice was underlying the words which flowed so rapidly from her thinlips.

  "Haven't you learned yet? Can't you read what the hand of Fate istrying to point out to your blinded eyes? Did not the man Cahusac askyou to marry him? Did not you refuse him? And did not he die oftyphoid within two weeks of committing that foolishness? And CharlieHemming. He dared to make love to you.
What then? Didn't he make afortune on the Cotton Exchange? Didn't he tell you that it was you whobrought him his luck? Luck? Your luck is disaster--disaster disguised.What happened? Hemming plunged into an orgie of riotous living whenyou refused him. Didn't he squander his fortune, bolt to Mexico, andin twelve months didn't he get shot as a rebel and a renegade, andthus 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 allbrought swift protest to Joan's lips.

  "You are wrong. You are cruel--bitterly, wickedly cruel, auntie," shecried. "How am I responsible? What have I done?"

  In an instant the gray eyes were turned upon her with something akinto ferocity, and her voice rang with passion.

  "Wrong? Cruel? I am stating undeniable facts. I am telling you whathas happened. And now I am going to tell you the result of yourmorning's ride. How are you responsible? What have you done? DickSorley has gone to his fate as surely as though you had thrust a knifethrough his heart."

  "Aunt! How--how dare----?"

  "How dare I say such things? Because I am telling you the truth--whichyou cannot bear to face. You must and shall hear it. Who are you toescape the miseries of life such as we all have to suffer? Such as youhave helped to make _me_ suffer."

  "Don't--don't!" Joan covered her face with her hands, as though toshut out the sight of that cruel, working face before her--as thoughto shut out of her mind the ruthless accusation hurled at her.

  But the seer was full of the bitterness so long stored up in herheart, and the moment had come when she could no longer contain itbeneath the cold mask she had worn for twenty years. The revelationwas hers. Her strange mind and senses had witnessed the scenes thatnow held her in the grip of their horror. They had driven her to thebreaking-point, and no longer had she thought for anything but her ownsufferings, 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 thelight in her eyes was unrelenting. "I tell you it is so. Dick Sorleyhas gone to his fate. Straight to his doom from your side. You senthim to it. I have witnessed the whole enactment of it here--in thiscrystal. You, and you alone, have killed him--killed him as surely asthough you had deliberately murdered him! Hark! That is the telephonebell 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 againit 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 atthe other end. It is at the hospital. The doctor is there, and he willspeak to you. And in a ward adjacent, your discarded loverlies--dead."