The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills, Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  OVER THE TELEPHONE

  From the depths of her high-backed chair Mercy Lascelles stared at thewhite door beyond which Joan had just vanished. Her gaunt figure wasno longer huddled over the fateful crystal she still clutched in hertwo hands. Her brain was busy, and her eyes were hot and feverish.

  She was not thinking of the girl. She was not even thinking of themessage traveling over the wire at that moment. That she knew. For herit had no greater significance than that it was the corroborationnecessary to convince the girl who was receiving it--to convince herof the truth of that which she had charged her with.

  Her mind was far away, back in the dim years of her earlier womanhood.Back amidst scenes of disaster through which she had long sincepassed. All the old pain and suffering was at the surface again. Againwas she torn by the bitterness and injustice that had robbed her ofall that seemed good to her in life. Again through her mental picturemoved the figures of two men and one woman, the characters who went tomake up the cast of her wretched drama. Her feelings were once moreafire with hatred, hatred for one, and, for the others, a profound,contemptuous bitterness.

  But hatred was dominant. The memory of one of those men had alwayspower to drive her to the verge of madness. He was a handsome,brown-haired man of powerful physique. A man whose gentle manner andswift, hot temper she abhorred, and the memory of whose influence uponher life had still power to grind to ashes every gentle feeling sheever possessed.

  It was of one of his terrible tempers she was thinking now. He haddisplayed a fury she could never, would never forget. It was a memorythat tripped her even now at every turn, till it had become somethingakin to an obsession.

  Every detail of the scene was as clear cut in her mind as a hideouscameo, every word he had uttered, the accusations, the insinuations hehad made. Even the room, with its simple furnishings, its neatness,its air of care--her care--stood out sharply in her memory. Sheremembered it all so well. She was in the midst of preparing CharlesStanmore's supper, and Joan, only a couple of weeks old, was fastasleep in an adjoining bedroom. He had chosen this time to call,because he knew that she, Mercy, would be alone.

  She remembered his handsome face clouded with sullen anger andjealousy when she let him in at the door of the apartment. And thenhis first words when he took up his position before the hard-coalstove in the parlor--

  "So you've pitched everything to the devil, and taken up your abodewith Charlie," he began, in tones of jealous fury. "And he--he is yourbrother-in-law."

  There was no mistaking his meaning. He intended that she should makeno mistake, for he added a laugh--a hateful laugh--to his words.

  This was the man who had asked her to marry him almost numberlesstimes. This was the man whom she had refused time and again, making itplain that, however hopelessly, her love was given to another. Thiswas the man who knew that she had come at her sister's death to carefor the little, new-born, motherless, baby girl, and help the man whomshe had always loved out of the hopeless dilemma in which he foundhimself. This was the man who was the lifelong friend of CharlesStanmore, whose mistress he was accusing her of having become.

  She remembered the sudden anger which leapt to her brain. Sheremembered, too, the thought which came in its midst, and formulatedher instant retort.

  "Yes," she said coldly. "I have."

  Then she saw the real man as she had now come to regard him. Sheremembered the sudden blaze of his eyes, the ghastly pallor of hisface, the look of almost insane jealousy which he turned upon her. Andthen came that never-to-be-forgotten insult, those words which hadseared themselves upon her woman's heart as though branded thereonwith red-hot irons.

  "And you are the woman I have loved. Woman?" He laughed. "It's toogood for you. Do you know what we men call such creatures as you? Allthis time you have waited--waited, and the moment your poor sister isin her grave, almost before the blood in her veins is cold, you seizeyour opportunity to fulfil your mad desire. Taking advantage ofCharlie's wretchedness and trouble, you force yourself upon him. Youforce a position upon him from which there is no escape. The worldwill accept the position at the value you intend, and he is powerlessto do anything but accept it too. You meant to have him, and I supposehe is yours by now. And all this time I have wasted an honest love onyou--you----"

  And she had answered him, calmly and deliberately, before he couldutter the filthy epithet she knew he intended.

  "Please keep your voice down, or--or you'll wake little Joan."

  Even now she could never quite understand her own attitude at themoment. Something inside her was urging her to fly at his throat andtear the foul words from it. Yet there was something gripping her,something compelling her to a calmness she was powerless to resist.

  Then, as swiftly as he had blazed into fury, had come a miraculouschange in the man. Perhaps it was the effect of her calm, perhaps itwas something in the man himself. Anyway the madness abruptly died outof his eyes and left him shaking. He strove to speak, but no wordscame. He passed his hand across his forehead as though to removesomething that was clouding his brain. He turned from her fixed stareas though he could no longer support it. He moved across the room. Hehesitated. He turned to her. She did not see the movement, for herback was now turned, but somehow she felt it.

  Then she heard his footsteps again, and, finally, the rattle of thedoor handle as he clutched it. After that came his voice. All theanger, the jealousy, had gone out of it. It was low, gentle,imploring. But she did not move.

  "Mercy, Mercy! For--forgive me. I----"

  "Never!"

  Oh, the scorn, the hatred she had flung into the word!

  The next she remembered was that he passed swiftly and silently fromthe room. Then, then at last her woman's weakness, a weakness she nowso cordially despised, overcame her, and she fell into a chair andwept.

  But her weakness was short-lived. Her spirit rose in rebellion, andher tears ceased to flow as the cruel iron entered her soul. Shepondered long and deeply, and presently she went on with herpreparations for Charles Stanmore's supper as though nothing unusualhad occurred.

  Nor, when he came home, did she tell him, nor did she ever by word oract permit the secret of that interview to pass out of her keeping.But the memory of it was forever with her. Day and night she hugged itto herself, she nursed it, and fostered it for all those twenty years,the bitterness, the cruel injustice of the insult, grinding its waytill it became a part of the very essence of her being.

  Suddenly a cry broke in upon her reverie. She started, and her eyeslit with a gleam of satisfaction. Her mind had returned to thepresent, and she called out--

  "Joan!"

  Without waiting for an answer she left her seat, and, crossing swiftlyto the door, flung it wide open.

  Joan staggered in, and, dropping into the welcoming arms of arocking-chair, she buried her face in her hands.

  Mercy Lascelles stood silently contemplating the bowed head. There wasno sympathy in her attitude. Her heart was cold and hard as steel. Butshe was interested in the cause rather than the effect.

  After a while the storm of grief slackened. The racking sobs came atlonger intervals. Then it was that Mercy Lascelles broke the silence.

  "Well?" she demanded sharply.

  The tear-stained face was slowly lifted, and the sight of the girl'sdistress was heart-breaking.

  "He is dead," Joan said in a choking voice. Then, with something likeresentment--"Are--are you satisfied?"

  Mercy went back to her chair and her beloved crystal. And after amoment she began to speak in a low, even tone, as though reciting awell-learnt lesson.

  "It was at the crossing of 36th Street and Lisson Avenue, here thestreet cars cross, here some also turn off. It was the fault of hishorse. The creature shied at a heavy truck. Two cars were approachingfrom east and west. The shying horse slipped on the granite paving,fell, and was caught between the two meeting cars before they couldpull up. The horse was killed on the spot, and--the rider was
----"

  "Don't, auntie! Don't say it! Yes, yes, he was taken to the hospital,and died of his injuries. But don't speak of his terrible mutilations.I--I can't bear it."

  Again Joan buried her face in her hands as though to shut out thehorror of it all. But the elder woman had no such scruples.

  "Why harrow yourself with the picture?" she demanded brusquely."Imagination can add nothing to the fact. Tears will not change onedetail. They will only add to your distress. Dick Sorley left yourside to go to certain death. Nothing could have averted that. Such washis fate--through you."