The Golden Woman Read Online
| 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.
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