_ CHAPTER XXVII. THE WEB OF FATE
Joan had looked forward to her aunt's coming with very mixed feelings. There were moments when she was frankly glad at the prospect of a companionship which had been hers since her earliest childhood. Her nature had no malice in it, and the undoubted care, which, in her early years, the strange old woman had bestowed upon her counted for much in her understanding of duty and gratitude. Then, besides, whatever Aunt Mercy's outlook, whatever the unwholesomeness of the profession she followed with fanatical adherence, she was used to her, used to her strangenesses, her dark moments. If affection had never been particularly apparent in the elder woman's attitude toward her, there had certainly been a uniform avoidance of the display of any other feeling until those last few days immediately preceding her own flight from St. Ellis. Habit was strong with Joan, so strong, indeed, that in her happy moments she was glad at the thought of the return into her life of the woman who had taken the place of her dead parents.
Then, too, even the memory of that frenzied morning, when Aunt Mercy, laboring under her awful disease of mysticism, had assumed the role of prophetess, and accuser, and hurled at her troubled head a denunciation as cruel as it was impossible, had lost something of its dread significance and sting. At the time it had been of a blasting nature, but now--now, since she had conferred with Buck's great friend, since Buck's wonderful support had been added to her life, all the harshness of the past appeared in a new and mellowed light. She believed she saw her aunt as she really was, a poor, torn creature, whose mind was diseased, as a result of those early fires of disappointment through which she had passed.
The Padre had denied the fate that this aunt had convinced her of. Buck had defied it, and laughed it out of countenance. These men, so strong, so capable, had communicated to her receptive nature something of the hope and strength that was theirs. Thus she was ready to believe, to stand shoulder to shoulder with them, feeling that in the future nothing could hurt her. So she was ready for her aunt's coming.
But to live up to her determination was not always easy. She had yielded to all her old superstitious dread at the moment when Buck had first opened her eyes to the wonderful love that had so silently, so unknown, yet so swiftly grown up in her heart for him. In that delicious awakening, when lost in a joy almost inconceivable, when her defenses were at their weakest, the enemy's attack had come swiftly and surely. Her very love had aided it. Her dread for the man had gripped her heart, and all her mind and senses had gone back to the unspeakable fears she had only just learnt to deny. Nor was it until his denial, a denial given with that wonderful laugh of confidence, had she been able to drag herself back to the new path which his white-haired friend had marked out for her.
Since then, however, she had been able to contemplate her aunt's coming in something of the spirit in which she desired to welcome her. She felt that now, at least, she was proof against the unwholesome thought of the woman's diseased mind. There were certain unacknowledged trepidations as the time drew near, but these she contrived to smother under the excitement and interest of preparing her house for the reception, and the radiant confidence of Buck, which never failed to support her.
Every morning and every evening brought Buck's strong presence to the farm for a brief visit. And each visit was a dream of delight to the simple, loving girl. All day long, as she labored through her household cares, and the affairs of the farm she lived in, she dwelt on the memory of the morning visit, or looked forward to her lover's coming as the sun reached the western skies. Every night, when she sought the snow-white ease of her bed, it was to spend her few remaining minutes of waking dwelling on the happiness of past moments, and ultimately to anticipate in dreams the delights of the morrow.
So the days sped rapidly by and the time for Aunt Mercy's arrival drew on. And with each passing day the shadows receded, her trepidations became less and less, until they almost reached the vanishing-point. She felt that in Buck's love no shadow could live. With him at her side she need have no fear of evil. He was exalted by the very wholesomeness of his mind and heart, and the strength and confidence that was his, far, far above the level of hideous superstitions and happenings. His love for her, her love for him were too great, far too great, for disaster to ever touch them.
Then came Aunt Mercy.
She came in the middle of an oppressive afternoon. The days of late had assumed an extraordinary oppressiveness for the season of the year. She came amidst the peaceful calm when all farm life seems to be wrapped in a restful somnolence, when the animal world has spent its morning energies, and seeks rest that it may recuperate for the affairs surrounding its evening meal.
With her coming Joan's first realization was of dismay at the manner in which she had underestimated the woman's personality, how strangely absence had distorted her view of the mind behind those hard, gray eyes. And with this realization came an uneasy feeling that the power and influence which had sent her rushing headlong from her home, to seek the peace of the wilderness, was no fancy of a weak, girlish mind, but a force, a strong, living force, which made itself felt the instant she came into the woman's uncanny presence again.
She was just the same unyielding creature she had always known. Her peevish plaint at the journey, her railing at the stupidity and impertinence of the teamster, her expressed disgust at the country, her complaining of everything. These things were just what Joan must have expected, had she not lived away from her aunt, and so lost her proper focus. Joan did her best to appease her. She strove by every art of her simple mind to interest her and divert her thought and mood into channels less harsh. But she had little success, and it quickly became apparent that the lapse of time since her going from home had aggravated rather than improved the strange mental condition under which her aunt labored.
After the first greetings, and Joan had conducted her to her room, which she had spent infinite time and thought in arranging, the old woman remained there to rest until supper-time. Then she reappeared, and, by the signs of her worn, ascetic face, the cruel hollows about those adamant eyes, the drawn cheeks and furrowed brow, the girl realized that rest with her was not easy to achieve. She saw every sign in her now that in the old days she had learned to dread so acutely.
However, there was no help for it. She knew it was not in the nature of that busy brain to rest, and one day the breaking-point would be reached, and the end would come suddenly.
But at supper-time there was a definite change in her aunt's mental attitude. Whereas before her whole thought had been for the outpouring of her complaint at her personal discomforts, now all that seemed to have been forgotten in something which held her alert and watchful. Joan had no thought or suspicion of the working of the swift-moving brain. Only was she pleased, almost delighted at the questioning and evident interest in her own affairs.
The meal was nearly over. Aunt Mercy, as was her habit, had eaten sparingly, while she alternately listened to the details of the girl's farm life, the manner of the gold camp, the history of her arrival there and the many vicissitudes which had followed, and voiced the questions of her inquisitorial mind. Now she leant back in her chair and slowly sipped a cup of strong, milkless tea, while her eyes watched the girl's expressive face.
Joan had purposely avoided mention of the many details which had had such power to disturb her in the past. She had no desire to afford a reopening of the scene she had endured that morning at St. Ellis. But Mercy Lascelles was not to be thwarted by any such simple subterfuge.
"You've told me a lot of what doesn't matter," she said sharply, after a pause, while she sipped her tea. "Now tell me something that does." She glanced down at the flashing diamond rings upon her fingers. "By your letter you have not escaped from those things you hoped to--when you left St. Ellis."
Joan started. She was sitting with her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her clasped hands. Mercy Lascelles observed the start, but offered no comment. She waited. She could afford to wait. She had read and understood the girl's letter. Besides, there was something else in her mind. Something else which required piecing into the web which linked their lives together. She knew that it held an important place, but its exact position her busy brain was still groping to resolve.
"Do you want me to talk about--those things?" the girl asked half appealingly. "Is it necessary? I am very happy, auntie, so happy that I don't want to risk losing a moment of it. I have not always been happy since I came here."
The hard, gray eyes suddenly lifted to the girl's face, and there was mocking in their depths.
"You mentioned them light-heartedly enough in your letter. You spoke of the death of two men to point your assurance that their death had nothing to do with your--fate. Some one had reassured you. Some one had made plain the absurdity that such a fate could ever be. Some one had shown you that such convictions only lived in the human mind and had no actual place in the scheme of things. Surely with this wonderful truth behind you, you need not shrink from details of things which have no connection with your life."
The icy sarcasm would not be denied. It was the old note Joan had been so familiar with. Its sting was as poignant as ever, but somehow now it stirred her to a defense of those who had come to her aid in her direst need.
But this was her aunt's first day on the farm. She felt she must restrain herself. She tried to smile, but it was a weakly attempt.
"You are quite unchanged, auntie," she said.
"I might say the same of you, Joan," came the sharp retort.
But Joan shook her head.
"You would be quite wrong. I have changed so much that you can never make me believe again in--all that which you made me believe before. Let me be frank. Nothing but my conviction that I am no more cursed by an evil fate than is every other living creature would have induced me to ask you here. I have asked you to come here and share my home because you are my aunt, my only relative, who has been good to me in the past. Because I am lonely here without you, and--and--oh, don't you understand? There are only us two left. Yes, I want to be with you." She broke off, but in a moment went on rapidly. "But this could never have been had I still believed what you made me believe. Under that old shadow I would have gone to the ends of the world rather than have been near you. Can't you understand? Let us forget it all--let us begin a new life together."
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 associated, 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, God, 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 passion 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 assurance was almost boundless, although the effect of the woman's previous attitude 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 massive. His limbs sturdy 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." _