The Golden Woman Part 44

"You've hit a wrong trail, haven't you?" he inquired.

The woman in the cart gave a frantic start, and clutched at the side rail as though for support. Then her eyes came on a level with the man's smiling face, and fear gave way to a sudden expression of relentless hatred.

"You?" she cried, and her lean figure seemed to crouch as though about to spring.

The man returned her stare without flinching. His eyes still wore their curious smile.

"Yes," he said. "It is I."

The woman's lips moved. She swallowed as though her throat had suddenly become parched.

"Moreton Bucklaw," she murmured. "And--and after all these years."

The man nodded. Then several moments pa.s.sed without a word.

Finally it was the man who spoke. His manner was calm, so calm that no one could have guessed a single detail of what lay between these two, or the significance of their strange meeting.

"You've hit a bad trail," he said. "There's a big drop back there.

These steps go on up to my home. The old fort. They're an old short cut to this valley. Guess your man'll need to unhitch his horses and turn the cart round. He can't get it round else. Then, if you go back past the shoulder of the hill, you'll see an old track, sharp to your right. That leads into the trail that'll take you right on down to the farm where little Joan lives." He moved toward the steps. "I'll tell your man," he said.

He mounted the steps with the ease of familiarity, his great muscles making the effort appear ridiculously easy. A little way up he paused, and looked down at her.

"Guess I shall see you again?" he said, with the same curious smile in his steady eyes.

And the woman's reply came sharply up the hillside to him. It came with all the pent-up hatred of years, concentrated into one sentence.

The hard eyes were alight with a cold fury, which, now, in her advancing years, when the freshness and beauty that had once been hers could no longer soften them, was not without its effect upon the man.

"Yes. You will see me again, Moreton Bucklaw."

And the man continued the ascent with a feeling as though he had listened to the p.r.o.nouncement of his death sentence.

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 grat.i.tude. 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 att.i.tude 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 a.s.sumed 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 pa.s.sed.

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 superst.i.tious 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 antic.i.p.ate 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 pa.s.sing 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 superst.i.tions 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 a.s.sumed 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 att.i.tude. 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 a.s.surance that their death had nothing to do with your--fate. Some one had rea.s.sured 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."