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 acompanionship which had been hers since her earliest childhood. Hernature had no malice in it, and the undoubted care, which, in herearly years, the strange old woman had bestowed upon her counted formuch in her understanding of duty and gratitude. Then, besides,whatever Aunt Mercy's outlook, whatever the unwholesomeness of theprofession she followed with fanatical adherence, she was used to her,used to her strangenesses, her dark moments. If affection had neverbeen particularly apparent in the elder woman's attitude toward her,there had certainly been a uniform avoidance of the display of anyother feeling until those last few days immediately preceding her ownflight from St. Ellis. Habit was strong with Joan, so strong, indeed,that in her happy moments she was glad at the thought of the returninto her life of the woman who had taken the place of her deadparents.
Then, too, even the memory of that frenzied morning, when Aunt Mercy,laboring under her awful disease of mysticism, had assumed the roleof prophetess, and accuser, and hurled at her troubled head adenunciation as cruel as it was impossible, had lost something of itsdread significance and sting. At the time it had been of a blastingnature, but now--now, since she had conferred with Buck's greatfriend, since Buck's wonderful support had been added to her life, allthe harshness of the past appeared in a new and mellowed light. Shebelieved she saw her aunt as she really was, a poor, torn creature,whose mind was diseased, as a result of those early fires ofdisappointment 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, sostrong, so capable, had communicated to her receptive nature somethingof the hope and strength that was theirs. Thus she was ready tobelieve, to stand shoulder to shoulder with them, feeling that in thefuture 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 hadyielded to all her old superstitious dread at the moment when Buck hadfirst opened her eyes to the wonderful love that had so silently, sounknown, yet so swiftly grown up in her heart for him. In thatdelicious awakening, when lost in a joy almost inconceivable, when herdefenses were at their weakest, the enemy's attack had come swiftlyand surely. Her very love had aided it. Her dread for the man hadgripped her heart, and all her mind and senses had gone back to theunspeakable fears she had only just learnt to deny. Nor was it untilhis denial, a denial given with that wonderful laugh of confidence,had she been able to drag herself back to the new path which hiswhite-haired friend had marked out for her.
Since then, however, she had been able to contemplate her aunt'scoming in something of the spirit in which she desired to welcomeher. She felt that now, at least, she was proof against theunwholesome thought of the woman's diseased mind. There were certainunacknowledged trepidations as the time drew near, but these shecontrived to smother under the excitement and interest of preparingher house for the reception, and the radiant confidence of Buck, whichnever failed to support her.
Every morning and every evening brought Buck's strong presence to thefarm for a brief visit. And each visit was a dream of delight to thesimple, loving girl. All day long, as she labored through herhousehold cares, and the affairs of the farm she lived in, she dwelton the memory of the morning visit, or looked forward to her lover'scoming as the sun reached the western skies. Every night, when shesought the snow-white ease of her bed, it was to spend her fewremaining 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 drewon. And with each passing day the shadows receded, her trepidationsbecame less and less, until they almost reached the vanishing-point.She felt that in Buck's love no shadow could live. With him at herside she need have no fear of evil. He was exalted by the verywholesomeness of his mind and heart, and the strength and confidencethat was his, far, far above the level of hideous superstitions andhappenings. His love for her, her love for him were too great, far toogreat, for disaster to ever touch them.
Then came Aunt Mercy.
She came in the middle of an oppressive afternoon. The days of latehad assumed an extraordinary oppressiveness for the season of theyear. She came amidst the peaceful calm when all farm life seems to bewrapped in a restful somnolence, when the animal world has spent itsmorning energies, and seeks rest that it may recuperate for theaffairs surrounding its evening meal.
With her coming Joan's first realization was of dismay at the mannerin which she had underestimated the woman's personality, how strangelyabsence had distorted her view of the mind behind those hard, grayeyes. And with this realization came an uneasy feeling that the powerand influence which had sent her rushing headlong from her home, toseek the peace of the wilderness, was no fancy of a weak, girlishmind, but a force, a strong, living force, which made itself felt theinstant she came into the woman's uncanny presence again.
She was just the same unyielding creature she had always known. Herpeevish plaint at the journey, her railing at the stupidity andimpertinence of the teamster, her expressed disgust at the country,her complaining of everything. These things were just what Joan musthave expected, had she not lived away from her aunt, and so lost herproper focus. Joan did her best to appease her. She strove by everyart of her simple mind to interest her and divert her thought and moodinto channels less harsh. But she had little success, and it quicklybecame apparent that the lapse of time since her going from home hadaggravated rather than improved the strange mental condition underwhich 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 oldwoman remained there to rest until supper-time. Then she reappeared,and, by the signs of her worn, ascetic face, the cruel hollows aboutthose adamant eyes, the drawn cheeks and furrowed brow, the girlrealized that rest with her was not easy to achieve. She saw everysign in her now that in the old days she had learned to dread soacutely.
However, there was no help for it. She knew it was not in the natureof that busy brain to rest, and one day the breaking-point would bereached, and the end would come suddenly.
But at supper-time there was a definite change in her aunt's mentalattitude. Whereas before her whole thought had been for the outpouringof her complaint at her personal discomforts, now all that seemed tohave been forgotten in something which held her alert and watchful.Joan had no thought or suspicion of the working of the swift-movingbrain. Only was she pleased, almost delighted at the questioning andevident interest in her own affairs.
The meal was nearly over. Aunt Mercy, as was her habit, had eatensparingly, while she alternately listened to the details of the girl'sfarm life, the manner of the gold camp, the history of her arrivalthere and the many vicissitudes which had followed, and voiced thequestions of her inquisitorial mind. Now she leant back in her chairand slowly sipped a cup of strong, milkless tea, while her eyeswatched the girl's expressive face.
Joan had purposely avoided mention of the many details which had hadsuch power to disturb her in the past. She had no desire to afford areopening of the scene she had endured that morning at St. Ellis. ButMercy 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, aftera pause, while she sipped her tea. "Now tell me something that does."She glanced down at the flashing diamond rings upon her fingers. "Byyour letter you have not escaped from those things you hoped to--whenyou left St. Ellis."
Joan started. She was sitting with her elbows on the table, her chinresting on her clasped hands. Mercy Lascelles observed the start, butoffered no comment. She waited. She could afford to wait. She had readand understood the girl's letter. Besides, there was something else inher mind. Something else which
required piecing into the web whichlinked 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 halfappealingly. "Is it necessary? I am very happy, auntie, so happy thatI don't want to risk losing a moment of it. I have not always beenhappy since I came here."
The hard, gray eyes suddenly lifted to the girl's face, and there wasmocking in their depths.
"You mentioned them light-heartedly enough in your letter. You spokeof the death of two men to point your assurance that their death hadnothing to do with your--fate. Some one had reassured you. Some onehad made plain the absurdity that such a fate could ever be. Some onehad shown you that such convictions only lived in the human mind andhad no actual place in the scheme of things. Surely with thiswonderful truth behind you, you need not shrink from details of thingswhich have no connection with your life."
The icy sarcasm would not be denied. It was the old note Joan had beenso familiar with. Its sting was as poignant as ever, but somehow nowit stirred her to a defense of those who had come to her aid in herdirest need.
But this was her aunt's first day on the farm. She felt she mustrestrain 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 nevermake 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 byan evil fate than is every other living creature would have induced meto ask you here. I have asked you to come here and share my homebecause you are my aunt, my only relative, who has been good to me inthe past. Because I am lonely here without you, and--and--oh, don'tyou understand? There are only us two left. Yes, I want to be withyou." She broke off, but in a moment went on rapidly. "But this couldnever have been had I still believed what you made me believe. Underthat old shadow I would have gone to the ends of the world rather thanhave been near you. Can't you understand? Let us forget it all--let usbegin 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 talklike that are fools. That is why I say you, too, are unchanged." Thewoman's eyes lit. They suddenly became filled with that cold firewhich Joan knew so well. "You think you are changed. You think by aneffort of will--your own, combined with that of another, you haveescaped that which has followed you from your birth. You think thatevery disaster that has ever occurred to those with whom you have beenassociated, and those who have belonged to you, can be accounted fornaturally. You, with your foolish brain, and the equally foolish brainof that other. Why, girl, you deny it in every line of the letter youwrote me. It is there--there in every word, in its very atmosphere.You are lying to yourself under the influence of this other--who liesto you. Prove what you say if you want me to believe. The scientificmind must have proof, undeniable, irrefutable proof. Statements, merestatements of unbelief are meaningless things which do not convinceeven their authors. If you need to convince yourself, and convince me,then engage yourself to some man, marry him, and I tell you now youwill 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 tomarry. I am going to marry the man I love more than life itself."
Joan had risen from her seat. She stood erect, her beautiful headthrown back. An ecstatic light shone in the deep velvet softness ofher eyes. But even as she spoke a sudden paling lessened the delicatebloom 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 eyesat the woman who could be capable of such cruelty. Then, of a sudden,a protest of such bitterness sprang to her lips that even MercyLascelles 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 myconvictions, you ask me for the one method by which even you can beconvinced, and when I show you how far my new faith has carried me youtaunt me by asking who is my--victim. Oh, aunt, for the love of allyou ever held dear, leave me in peace. Let me prove to you my owndestiny, but leave me in peace until I have done so, or--failed. Canyou not see that I am trying to preserve my sanity? And by every wordand look you are driving me to the verge of madness. The man I loveknows all, he and his great friend. He knows all you have ever toldme, and his love is the strongest and bravest. He laughs this fate toscorn, he has no fears for himself, or for me. I tell you you shallhave your proof. But you must leave me in peace."
For a moment it almost seemed as if her aunt were abashed at thepassion of her protest. She withdrew her cold stare, and, with herjeweled hands folded in her lap, gazed down at the white table-cloth.She waited until Joan dropped despairingly back into her chair, thenshe looked up, and her glance was full of malicious irony.
"You shall have your way--after to-night. You shall not hear oneword 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 becameintrospective. "Who is this man--you say you are going to marry?"
Joan warmed under the change in her aunt's manner. Her relief at theother's assurance was almost boundless, although the effect of thewoman'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 manfrom whom I bought this farm. Oh, auntie, wait until you see him. Youwill realize, as I have, his strength, his goodness. You will have nodoubts when you know him. You will understand that he has no fear ofany--any supernatural agencies, has no fear of any fancied fate thatmay be awaiting him. Auntie, he is tall, so tall, and--oh, he'swonderful. And his name, Buck--don't you like it? It is so like him.Buck--independence, courage, confidence. And, oh, auntie, I love himso."
Mercy remained quite unmoved. It almost seemed doubtful if she heardand understood all the simple girlishness in her niece's rhapsody, sopreoccupied she seemed with her own thoughts.
"It was his friend, you say, who has taught you that--you have nothingfurther 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 tokeep the miners from starving before they found the gold. He is a sortof foster-father to Buck. He found him when he was a littleboy--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 freshyoung 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. Hereyes were no longer uninterested. She was stirred to swift mentalactivity. She knew that the web was readjusting itself. The portionshe 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. Hislimbs sturdy and powerful."
Mercy detailed her description of the man in sharp, jerky sentences,each one definite and pointed. She spoke with the certainty ofconviction. 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 ever
yhateful feeling rather than mirth. Joan was shocked, and vaguelywondered when she had ever before heard her aunt laugh.
"Know him? Yes, I know him." The laugh was gone and a terrible lookhad suddenly replaced the granite hardness of her eyes. "I have knownhim 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 mannerincreased. The look in her eyes she recognized as the look she hadseen in the woman's eyes when she had first listened to the story ofher childhood.
"Moreton Bucklaw?"
"Yes, Moreton Bucklaw," her aunt cried, with sudden vehemence, whichseemed to grow with every word she spoke. "Moreton Bucklaw. Do youunderstand? No, of course you don't. So this is your paragon ofgoodness and wisdom. This is the man who has told you that yourfate only exists in distorted fancy. This is the man who is thefoster-father of your wonderful Buck, who defies the curse of disasterwhich dogs your feet. Child, child, you have proved my words out ofyour own lips. The disaster you deny is hard upon your heels, hardupon the heels of this man you love. Your own hand, the hand even ofyour lover, is in it. Was it fate that brought you here? Was it fatethat you should love this man? Was it fate that made my teamster losehis way and so bring me face to face with this man, almost at the doorof his own home? Was it fate that brought me here? Yes, yes, yes! Itell you it was fate that did all these things--your fate. The cursefrom which you can never escape. Moreton Bucklaw!" She mouthed thewords with insane glee. "It is almost laughable," she cried. "You havepromised to marry the foster-son of the man who is shortly to pay thepenalty for the murder of--your father."
The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills Page 27
