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Unlike some other reproductions of classic texts (1) We have not
used OCR(Optical Character Recognition), as this leads to bad
quality books with introduced typos. (2) In books where there are
images such as portraits, maps, sketches etc We have endeavoured to
keep the quality of these images, so they represent accurately the
original artefact. Although occasionally there may be certain
imperfections with these old texts, we feel they deserve to be made
available for future generations to enjoy.
The midnight sun had set, but in a crotch between two snow-peaks it
had kindled a vast caldron from which rose a mist of jewels, garnet
and turquoise, topaz and amethyst and opal, all swimming in a sea
of molten gold. The glow of it still clung to the face of the broad
Yukon, as a flush does to the soft, wrinkled cheek of a girl just
roused from deep sleep. Except for a faint murkiness in the air it
was still day. There was light enough for the four men playing
pinochle on the upper deck, though the women of their party,
gossiping in chairs grouped near at hand, had at last put aside
their embroidery. The girl who sat by herself at a little distance
held a magazine still open on her lap. If she were not reading, her
attitude suggested it was less because of the dusk than that she
had surrendered herself to the spell of the mysterious beauty which
for this hour at least had transfigured the North to a land all
light and atmosphere and color. Gordon Elliot had taken the boat at
Pierre's Portage, fifty miles farther down the river.
Mr. Ridgway, ma'am. The young woman who was giving the last touches
to the very effective picture framed in her long looking-glass
nodded almost imperceptibly. She had come to the parting of the
ways, and she knew it, with a shrewd suspicion as to which she
would choose. She had asked for a week to decide, and her
heart-searching had told her nothing new. It was characteristic of
Virginia Balfour that she did not attempt to deceive herself. If
she married Waring Ridgway it would be for what she considered good
and sufficient reasons, but love would not be one of them. He was
going to be a great man, for one thing, and probably a very rich
one, which counted, though it would not be a determining factor.
This she could find only in the man himself, in the masterful force
that made him what he was. The sandstings of life did not disturb
his confidence in his victorious star, nor did he let fine-spun
moral obligations hamper his predatory career. He had a genius for
success in whatever he undertook, pushing his way to his end with a
shrewd, direct energy that never faltered.
Phyllis leaned against the door-jamb and looked down the long road
which wound up from the valley and lost itself now and again in the
land waves. Miles away she could see a little cloud of dust
travelling behind the microscopic stage, which moved toward her
almost as imperceptibly as the minute-hand of a clock. A bronco was
descending the hill trail from the Flagstaff mine, and its rider
announced his coming with song in a voice young and glad. If the
girl heard, she heeded not. One might have guessed her a sullen,
silent lass, and would have done her less than justice. For the
storm in her eyes and the curl of the lip were born of a mood and
not of habit. They had to do with the gay vocalist who drew his
horse up in front of her and relaxed into the easy droop of the
experienced rider at rest.
A girl sat on the mossy river-bank in the dappled, golden sunlight.
Frowning eyes fixed on a sweeping eddy, she watched without seeing
the racing current. Her slim, supple body, crouched and tense, was
motionless, but her soul seethed tumultuously. In the bosom of her
coarse linsey gown lay hidden a note. Through it destiny called her
to the tragic hour of decision. The foliage of the young pawpaws
stirred behind her. Furtively a pair of black eyes peered forth and
searched the opposite bank of the stream, the thicket of
rhododendrons above, the blooming laurels below. Very stealthily a
handsome head pushed out through the leaves. "'Lindy," a voice
whispered. The girl gave a start, slowly turned her head. She
looked at the owner of the voice from steady, deep-lidded eyes. The
pulse in her brown throat began to beat. One might have guessed her
with entire justice a sullen lass, untutored of life, passionate,
and high-spirited, resentful of all restraint. Hers was such beauty
as lies in rich blood beneath dark coloring, in dusky hair and
eyes, in the soft, warm contours of youth. Already she was
slenderly full, an elemental daughter of Eve, primitive as one of
her fur-clad ancestors.
For hours Manuel Pesquiera had been rolling up the roof of the
ontinent in an observation-car of the "Short Line." His train had
wound in and out through a maze of bewild-ering scenery, and was at
last dipping down into the basin of the famous gold camp. The alert
black eyes of the young New Mexican wandered discontentedly over
the raw ugliness of the camp. Towns straggled here and there
untidily at haphazard, mushroom growths of a day born of a lucky
"strike." Into the valleys and up and down the hillsides ran a
network of rails for trolley and steam cars. Everywhere were the
open tunnel mouths or the frame shaft-houses perched above the gray
Titan dump beards.
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