Mercy shook her head. She was quite unmoved by the girl"s appeal.
"There is only one life. There is no beginning again. Those who talk like that are fools. That is why I say you, too, are unchanged." The woman"s eyes lit. They suddenly became filled with that cold fire which Joan knew so well. "You think you are changed. You think by an effort of will--your own, combined with that of another, you have escaped that which has followed you from your birth. You think that every disaster that has ever occurred to those with whom you have been a.s.sociated, and those who have belonged to you, can be accounted for naturally. You, with your foolish brain, and the equally foolish brain of that other. Why, girl, you deny it in every line of the letter you wrote me. It is there--there in every word, in its very atmosphere.
You are lying to yourself under the influence of this other--who lies to you. Prove what you say if you want me to believe. The scientific mind must have proof, undeniable, irrefutable proof. Statements, mere statements of unbelief are meaningless things which do not convince even their authors. If you need to convince yourself, and convince me, then engage yourself to some man, marry him, and I tell you now you will bring about the direst tragedy that ever befel human creature."
"I--I have done what--what you dare me to do. I have engaged myself to marry. I am going to marry the man I love more than life itself."
Joan had risen from her seat. She stood erect, her beautiful head thrown back. An ecstatic light shone in the deep velvet softness of her eyes. But even as she spoke a sudden paling lessened the delicate bloom of her cheeks.
The other, with her cold eyes leveled at her, was quick to observe.
"And who is--your victim?"
Joan"s pallor increased as she stared for a moment with dilating eyes at the woman who could be capable of such cruelty. Then, of a sudden, a protest of such bitterness sprang to her lips that even Mercy Lascelles was startled.
"Oh, G.o.d, was there ever such callous heartlessness in human creature?
Was there ever such madness in sane woman? You ask me to prove my convictions, you ask me for the one method by which even you can be convinced, and when I show you how far my new faith has carried me you taunt me by asking who is my--victim. Oh, aunt, for the love of all you ever held dear, leave me in peace. Let me prove to you my own destiny, but leave me in peace until I have done so, or--failed. Can you not see that I am trying to preserve my sanity? And by every word and look you are driving me to the verge of madness. The man I love knows all, he and his great friend. He knows all you have ever told me, and his love is the strongest and bravest. He laughs this fate to scorn, he has no fears for himself, or for me. I tell you you shall have your proof. But you must leave me in peace."
For a moment it almost seemed as if her aunt were abashed at the pa.s.sion of her protest. She withdrew her cold stare, and, with her jeweled hands folded in her lap, gazed down at the white table-cloth.
She waited until Joan dropped despairingly back into her chair, then she looked up, and her glance was full of malicious irony.
"You shall have your way--after to-night. You shall not hear one word of warning from me. But to-night you must let me have my way.
You say you believe. I tell you I _know_. You must do your best, and--fail. Have your way." She withdrew her gaze and her eyes became introspective. "Who is this man--you say you are going to marry?"
Joan warmed under the change in her aunt"s manner. Her relief at the other"s a.s.surance was almost boundless, although the effect of the woman"s previous att.i.tude was to leave her far less sure of herself.
"It is Buck," she said impulsively. "He is the great friend of the man from whom I bought this farm. Oh, auntie, wait until you see him. You will realize, as I have, his strength, his goodness. You will have no doubts when you know him. You will understand that he has no fear of any--any supernatural agencies, has no fear of any fancied fate that may be awaiting him. Auntie, he is tall, so tall, and--oh, he"s wonderful. And his name, Buck--don"t you like it? It is so like him.
Buck--independence, courage, confidence. And, oh, auntie, I love him so."
Mercy remained quite unmoved. It almost seemed doubtful if she heard and understood all the simple girlishness in her niece"s rhapsody, so preoccupied she seemed with her own thoughts.
"It was his friend, you say, who has taught you that--you have nothing further to fear? And who is this paragon?"
"He is the man who sold me the farm. He is such a good, kind creature.
He is loved and respected by every soul in the place. He is so wise, too,--he is quite wonderful. You know, he only sold his farm to me to keep the miners from starving before they found the gold. He is a sort of foster-father to Buck. He found him when he was a little boy--picked him up on the trail-side. That"s about twenty years ago, soon after the Padre--that"s what they call him--first came here."
"Yes, yes; but his name?"
Mercy had little patience with such detail as interested the fresh young mind of the girl.
"Moreton Kenyon."
The eyes of the old woman shot a swift glance into the girl"s face.
"Moreton--who?"
"Kenyon."
Mercy sat up in her chair. Her whole figure was poised alertly. Her eyes were no longer uninterested. She was stirred to swift mental activity. She knew that the web was readjusting itself. The portion she had been seeking to place was finding its own position.
"He has a head of thick white hair. He has gray eyes, darkly fringed.
He is a man of something over fifty. His shoulders are ma.s.sive. His limbs st.u.r.dy and powerful."
Mercy detailed her description of the man in sharp, jerky sentences, each one definite and pointed. She spoke with the certainty of conviction. She was not questioning.
Joan"s surprise found vent in a wondering interrogation.
"Then, you have seen him? You know him?"
Her aunt laughed. It was a painful, hideous laugh, suggesting every hateful feeling rather than mirth. Joan was shocked, and vaguely wondered when she had ever before heard her aunt laugh.
"Know him? Yes, I know him." The laugh was gone and a terrible look had suddenly replaced the granite hardness of her eyes. "I have known him all my life. I saw him only to-day, in the hills. He knew me. Oh, yes, he knew me, and I knew him. We have reason to know each other.
But his name is not Moreton Kenyon. It is--Moreton Bucklaw."
Joan"s wonder gave place to alarm as the other"s venomous manner increased. The look in her eyes she recognized as the look she had seen in the woman"s eyes when she had first listened to the story of her childhood.
"Moreton Bucklaw?"
"Yes, Moreton Bucklaw," her aunt cried, with sudden vehemence, which seemed to grow with every word she spoke. "Moreton Bucklaw. Do you understand? No, of course you don"t. So this is your paragon of goodness and wisdom. This is the man who has told you that your fate only exists in distorted fancy. This is the man who is the foster-father of your wonderful Buck, who defies the curse of disaster which dogs your feet. Child, child, you have proved my words out of your own lips. The disaster you deny is hard upon your heels, hard upon the heels of this man you love. Your own hand, the hand even of your lover, is in it. Was it fate that brought you here? Was it fate that you should love this man? Was it fate that made my teamster lose his way and so bring me face to face with this man, almost at the door of his own home? Was it fate that brought me here? Yes, yes, yes! I tell you it was fate that did all these things--your fate. The curse from which you can never escape. Moreton Bucklaw!" She mouthed the words with insane glee. "It is almost laughable," she cried. "You have promised to marry the foster-son of the man who is shortly to pay the penalty for the murder of--your father."
CHAPTER XXVIII
A BLACK NIGHT
The Padre sat staring into s.p.a.ce before the stove. Buck was in his favorite position at the open door, gazing out into the darkness of the night. As he smoked his evening pipe he was thinking, as usual, of the woman who was never quite out of his thoughts. He was intensely happy in the quiet fashion that was so much a part of him. It seemed to him unbelievable that he could have lived and been content before he met Joan. Now there could be no life without her, no world even.
She pervaded his every sense, his whole being, with her beautiful presence.
He breathed deeply. Yes, it was all very, very wonderful. Then, by degrees, his thoughts ran on to the expected arrival of Joan"s relative--that aunt whom he had heard so much about from the Padre.
And in a moment an uneasy feeling made him shift his position. The Padre"s story was still vivid in his mind; he could never forget it.
Nor could he forget this woman"s place in it. These thoughts set him speculating uneasily as to the possible result of her visit.
He surrept.i.tiously glanced over at the silent figure beside the stove.
The man"s pipe was still in his mouth, but it had gone out. Also he saw, in that quick glance, that the fire in the stove had fallen low.
But he made no move to replenish it. The night was very sultry.
He turned again to his contemplation of the outer world. The night was black, jet black. There was not a star visible. The mountain air had lost its cool snap, the accustomed rustle of the woods was gone. There was a tense stillness which jarred in an extraordinary degree.
"A desperate, dark night," he said suddenly. He was merely voicing his thought aloud.
The sound of his voice roused the other from his reverie. The Padre lifted his head and removed the pipe from between his teeth.
"Yes--and hot. Throw us your tobacco."
Buck pitched his pouch across, but remained where he was.