The Golden Woman Part 53

His moment came. It came swiftly, suddenly, like most matters of great import. His opportunity came at the psychological moment, when the last shred of temperance had been torn from wild, lawless hearts, which, in such moments, were little better than those of savage beasts. It came when the poison of complaint and bitterness had at last searched out the inmost recesses of stunted, brutalized minds.

And Beasley s.n.a.t.c.hed at it hungrily, like a worm-ridden dog will s.n.a.t.c.h at the filthiest offal.

The drunken voice of Abe Allinson lifted above the general din. He was lolling against one end of the counter, isolated from his fellows by reason of his utterly stupefied condition. He was in a state when he no longer had interest for his companions. He rolled about blear-eyed and hopelessly mumbling, with a half-emptied gla.s.s in his hand, which he waved about uncertainly. Suddenly an impotent spasm of rage seemed to take hold of him. With a hoa.r.s.e curse he raised his gla.s.s and hurled it crashing against the wall. Then, with a wild, prolonged whoop he shouted the result of his drunken cogitations.

"We'll burn 'em! Drown 'em! Shoot 'em! Hang 'em! Come on, fellers, foller me!"

He made a staggering effort to leave his support. He straightened up.

For a moment he poised, swaying. Then he pitched forward on his face and lay stretched full length upon the floor.

But all had heard. And Beasley s.n.a.t.c.hed at his opportunity. He sprang upon the counter in the moment of astonished quiet, and, before tongues broke loose again, he had the whole attention of the crowd.

"Here, boys," he cried. "Abe's right. Drunk as he is, he's right. Only he sure wants to do too much--more than his legs'll let him." He grinned. "We're goin' to do this thing right now. But we're goin' to do it like good citizens of a dandy city. We ain't goin' to act like a gang of lynchers. We're dealin' with a gal, with gold ha'r an' blue eyes, an' we're goin' to deal accordin'. We ain't lookin' fer her life. That's too easy, an', wal--she's a woman. No, we're goin' to rid this place of her an' all her tribe. We're goin' to make it so she can't stop to do no more harm, bringin' sheriffs around. We're goin'

to burn her home right out, an' we're goin' to set her in her wagon an' team, an' let her drive to h.e.l.l out of here. We're goin' to do it right now, before the sheriff gets busy along here. After that we'll be too late. Are you game? Who's comin'? We're goin' to burn that Jonah farm till ther' ain't a stick left above ground to say it ever stood there. That's what we're goin' to do, an' I'm the man who'll start the bonfire. Say, we'll make it like a fourth o' July. We'll have one royal time--an' we'll be quit of all Jonahs."

As he finished speaking he leapt to the ground amidst the crowd. Nor did he need to wait to hear the response to his appeal. It came in one of those unanimous, drunken roars, only to be heard in such a place, at such a time, or on a battle-field, when insensate fury demands a raucous outlet. Every man in the place, lost, for the moment, to all the dictates of honest manhood, was ready to follow the leadership of one whom, in sober moments, they all disliked. It was an extraordinary exhibition of the old savage which ever lies so near the surface in men upon the fringe of civilization.

Nor did Beasley give them time to think. His orders came rapidly. The bartender, for once his eyes sparkling at the thought of trouble about to visit an unsuspecting fellow-creature, hurled himself to the task of dealing out one large final drink to everybody. Then when a sufficient supply of materials of an inflammatory nature had been gathered together, the saloon-keeper placed himself at the head of his men, supported by the only too willing Diamond Jack, and the procession started out.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

STRONGER THAN DEATH

From the time of her aunt's going to Leeson b.u.t.te to the morning of her return to the farm Joan pa.s.sed through a nightmare of uncertainty and hopelessness. Every moment of her time seemed unreal. Her very life seemed unreal. It was as though her mind were detached from her body, and she was gazing upon the scenes of a drama in which she had no part, while yet she was weighted down with an oppressive fear of the tragedy which she knew was yet to come.

Every moment she felt that the threat of disaster was growing. That it was coming nearer and nearer, and that now no power on earth could avert it.

Twice only during that dreary interval of waiting she saw Buck. But even his presence did little more than ease her dread and despair, leaving it crushing her down the more terribly with the moment of his going. He came to her with his usual confidence, but it was only with information of his own preparations for his defense of his friend. She could listen to them, told in his strong, reliant manner, with hope stirring her heart and a great, deep love for the man thrilling her every nerve. But with his going came the full realization of the significance of the necessity of such preparations. The very recklessness of them warned her beyond doubt how small was the chance of the Padre's escape. Buck had declared his certainty of outwitting the law, even if it necessitated using force against the man whom he intended to save.

Left to her own resources Joan found them weak enough. So weak indeed that at last she admitted to herself that the evidences of the curse that had dogged her through life were no matters of distorted imagination. They were real enough. Terribly real. And the admission found her dreading and helpless. She knew she had gone back to the fatal obsession, which, aided by the Padre and her lover, she had so loyally contended. She knew in those dark moments she was weakly yielding. These men had come into her life, had sown fresh seeds of promise, but they had been sown in soil choked with weeds of superst.i.tion, and so had remained wholly unfruitful.

How could it be otherwise? Hard upon the heels of Buck's love had come this deadly attack of fate upon him and his. The miracle of it was stupendous. It had come in a way that was utterly staggering. It had come, not as with those others who had gone before, but out of her life. It had come direct from her and hers. And the disaster threatened was not merely death but disgrace, disgrace upon a good man, even upon her lover, which would last as long as they two had life.

The sense of tragedy merged into the maddening thought of the injustice of it. It was monstrous. It was a tyranny for which there was no justification, and it goaded her to the verge of hysteria.

Whatever she did now the hand of fate would move on irrevocably fulfilling its purpose to the bitter end. She knew it. In spite of all Buck's confidence, all his efforts to save his friend, the disaster would be accomplished, and her lover would be lost to her in the vortex of her evil destiny.

Fool--fool that she had been. Wicked even, yes, wicked, that she had not foreseen whither her new life was drifting. It was for her to have antic.i.p.ated the shoals of trouble in the tide of Buck's strong young life. It was for her to have prevented the mingling of their lives. It was for her to have shut him out of her thoughts and denied him access to the heart that beat so warmly for him. She had been weak, so weak.

On every count she had failed to prove the strength she had believed herself to possess. It was a heart-breaking thought.

But she loved. It would have been impossible to have denied her love.

She would not have denied it if she could. Her rebellion against her fate now carried her further. She had the right to love this man. She had the right which belongs to every woman in the world. And he desired her love. He desired it above all things in the world--and he had no fear.

Then the strangeness of it. With all that had gone before she had had no misgivings until the moment he had poured out all the strength of his great love into her yearning ears. She had not recognized the danger besetting them. She had not paused to ask a question of herself, to think of the possibilities. She loved him, and the thought of his love thrilled her even now amidst all her despair. But the moment his words of love had been spoken, even with the first wonderful thrill of joy had come the reality of awakening. Then--then it was that the evil of her fate had unmasked itself and showed its hideous features, leering, mocking, in the memory of what had gone before, taunting her for her weakly efforts to escape the doom marked out for her.

All this she thought of in her black moments. All this and far, far more than could ever take shape in words. And her terror of what was to come became unspeakable. But through it all one thing, one gleam of hope obtruded itself. It was not a tangible hope. It was not even a hope that could have found expression. It was merely a picture that ever confronted her, even when darkness seemed most nearly to overwhelm her.

It was the picture of Buck's young face, full of strength and confidence. Somehow the picture was always one of hope. It caught no reflection of her own trouble, but lived in her memory undiminished by any despair, however black.

Once or twice she found herself wondering at it. Sometimes she felt it to be merely a trick of memory to taunt her with that which could never be, and so she tried to shut out the vague hopes it aroused.

But, as time went on, and the hour for her aunt's return drew near, the recurrence of the picture became so persistent that it was rarely out of her mental vision. It was a wonderful thought. She saw him as she had seen him when first he laughed her threat of disaster and death to scorn. She could never forget that moment. She could hear his laugh now, that laugh, so full of youthful courage, which had rung through the old barn.

Pondering thus her mind suddenly traveled back to something which, in the midst of all her tribulations, had completely pa.s.sed out of her recollection. She was startled. She was startled so that she gasped with the sudden feeling it inspired. What was it? Something her aunt had said. Yes, she remembered now. And with memory the very words came back to her, full of portentous meaning. And as they rushed pell-mell through her straining brain a great uplifting bore her toward that hope which she suddenly realized was not yet dead.

"Go you and find a love so strong that no disaster can kill it. And maybe life may still have some compensations for you, maybe it will lift the curse from your suffering shoulders. It--it is the only thing in the world that is stronger than disaster. It is the only thing in the world that is stronger than--death."

They were her aunt's words spoken in the vehemence of her prophetic pa.s.sion. It was the one thing, she had warned her, that could save her.

Was this the love she had found? Was this the love to lead her to salvation--this wonderful love of Buck's? Was this that which was to leave life some compensations? Was this that which was stronger than disaster--than death? Yes, yes! Her love was her life. And now without it she must die. Yes, yes! Buck--young, glorious in his courage and strength. He was stronger than disaster, and their love--was it not stronger than death?

From the moment of this wonderful recollection, a gentle calm gradually possessed her. The straining of those two long wakeful nights, the nightmare of dread which had pursued her into the daylight hours, left her with a sudden ease of thought she had never hoped to find again. It all came back to her. Her aunt had told her whither she must seek the key that would unlock the prison gates of fate, and all inadvertently she had found it.

In Buck's love must lay her salvation. With that stronger than death no disaster could come. He was right, and she was all wrong. He had laughed them to scorn--she must join in his laugh.

So at last came peace. The last wakeful night before the morning of her aunt's return terminated in a few hours of refreshing, much-needed slumber. Hope had dawned, and the morrow must bring the morrow's events. She would endeavor to await them with something of the confidence which supported Buck.

The room was still, so still that its atmosphere might have been likened to the night outside, which was heavy with the presage of coming storm. There was a profound feeling of opposing forces at work, yet the silence remained undisturbed.

It was nearly nine o'clock, and the yellow lamplight shed its soft monotony over the little parlor, revealing the occupants of the room in att.i.tudes of tense concentration, even antagonism. Mercy Lascelles swayed slowly to and fro in the new rocking-chair Joan had purchased for her comfort. Her attenuated figure was huddled down in that familiar att.i.tude which the girl knew so well, but her face wore an expression which Joan had never beheld before.

Usually her hard eyes were coldly unsmiling. Now they smiled--terribly. Usually her thin cheeks were almost dead white in their pallor. Now they were flushed and hectic with a suggestion of the inward fire that lit her eyes. The harsh mouth was irrevocably set, till nose and chin looked as though they soon must meet, while the hideous dark rings showed up the cruel glare of her eyes, which shone diabolically.

Joan stood some paces away. She was looking down aghast at the crouching figure, and her eyes were horrified. This was the first she had seen of her relative since her return that morning. The old woman had shut herself up in her bedroom, refusing to speak, or to eat, all day. But now she had emerged from her seclusion, and Joan had been forced to listen to the story of her journey.

It was a painful story, and still more painfully told. It was full of a cruel enjoyment such as never in her life Joan had believed this woman capable of. Her eccentricities were many, her nervous tendencies strange and often weird, but never had such a side of her character as she now presented been allowed to rise to the surface.

At first Joan wondered as she listened. She wondered at the fierce purpose which underlaid this weakly body. But with each pa.s.sing moment, with each fresh detail of her motives and methods, her wonder deepened to a rapidly growing conviction which filled her with horror and repulsion. She told herself that the woman was no longer sane. At last she had fallen a victim to her racked and broken nerves, as the doctors had prophesied. To them, and to the everlasting brooding upon her disappointments and injuries for all these long years.

This she felt, and yet the feeling conveyed no real conviction to her mind. All she knew was that loathing and repulsion stirred her, until the thought revolted her that she was breathing the same air as one who could be capable of such vicious cruelty. But she struggled to stifle all outward sign. And though she was only partly successful she contrived to keep her words calm, even if her eyes, those windows of her simple girl's soul, would not submit to such control.

"I'm over fifty now, girl," Mercy finished up, in a low suppressed tone, husky with feeling, yet thrilling with a cruel triumph. "Over fifty, and, for the last twenty and more years of it, I have waited for this moment. I have waited with a patience you can never understand because you have never been made to suffer as I have. But I knew it would come. I have known it every day of those twenty years, because I have read it in that book in which I have read so many things which concern human life. I was robbed of life years and years ago. Yes, life. I have been a dead woman these twenty years. My life was gone when your father died, leaving you, another woman's child, in my hands. G.o.d in heaven! Sometimes I wonder why I did not strangle the wretched life out of you years ago--you, another woman's child, but yet with Charles Stanmore's blood in your veins. Perhaps it was because of that I spared your life. Perhaps it was because I read your fate, and knew you had to suffer, that I preferred my sister's child should reap the reward of her mother's crime--yes, crime. Perhaps it was that while Charles Stanmore lived my hopes and longings were still capable of fulfilment. But he is dead--dead years and years ago. And with his death my life went out too. Now there is only revenge. No, not revenge," she laughed, "justice to be dealt out. That justice it is my joy to see dispensed. That justice it is my joy to feel that my hand has brought its administering about.

"I have laid all the information necessary. I have a lawyer in Leeson b.u.t.te in communication with my man in New York. And--and the sheriff and his men will be here before daylight. Oh, yes, I can afford to tell you now that the work is accomplished. You shall have no opportunity of communicating with your friends. I shall not sleep to-night. Nor will you leave this house. There is a means of holding you here. A means which will never be far from my hand." She tapped the bosom of her dress significantly, and Joan understood that she had armed herself. "The arrest will be made while they are still sleeping in that old fort of theirs--and your young Buck will pay the penalty if he interferes. Yes, yes," she added, rubbing her lean, almost skeleton hands together in an access of satisfaction, "when you sip your coffee in the morning, my girl, your Buck's foster-father will be on his way to the jail from which he will only emerge for the comfort of an electric chair. I have endured twenty years of mental torture, but--I have not endured them in vain."

The cold, consummate completeness with which the woman detailed her carefully considered plans turned Joan's heart to stone. It chilled her and left her shivering in the awful heat. For one moment, one weak moment when her woman's spirit quailed before the deadly array of facts, she felt faint, and one hand sought the table for support. But with a tremendous effort she recovered herself. It was the thought of Buck which helped her. She could not let him fall into the trap so well laid by this--this creature, without an effort to save them both.

In a flash her mind pictured the scene of the Padre's capture. She saw the fort surrounded by the "deputies." She saw the Padre shackled before he could rise from his blankets. She saw Buck, under cover of ruthless firearms, hurl himself to the rescue and pay for his temerity with his life. In a sudden overwhelming pa.s.sion of appeal she flung herself on her knees before the terrible old woman.

"Aunt, aunt!" she cried. "You cannot be so heartless, so cruel. There is a mistake. You are mistaken. The Padre swears to his innocence, and if you knew him as I know him, as all this countryside knows him, you _must_ believe. He is not capable of murder. My father committed suicide. Think, think of all that went before his death, and you, too, will see that everything points to suicide. Oh, aunt, think of what you are doing. The plans you have made _must_ involve the man I love.

A perfectly innocent man, as even you know. If my father was all your world, so is Buck all mine. He will defend the Padre. I know him. And as you say he will pay the penalty with his life. If you have one grain of pity, if you have one remaining thought of love for my dead father, then spare this man to his daughter. Where is the right that you should involve Buck? You do not even know him. Oh, aunt, you have lived all these twenty years with me. In your own way you have cared for me. Sacrifice your enmity against this innocent man. It will give you a peace of mind you have never known before, and will give me the happiness of the man I love."

Mercy's eyes lit with fine scorn as she caught at Joan's final words.

"The happiness of the man you love!" she cried with pa.s.sionate anger, "Why should I give you your man's love? Why should I help any woman to a happiness I have never been allowed to taste? Perhaps it pleases me to think that your Buck will be involved. Have I not warned you of the disaster which you have permitted him to court? Listen, girl, not one detail of all that which I have waited for will I forego. Not one detail. When it is accomplished nothing on earth matters to me. The sooner I am off it the better. The sooner I leave this world for other realms the sooner I shall be able to pursue those others who have injured me and pa.s.sed on to--a fresh habitation. Do you understand? Do you understand that I will brook no interference from you? Peace, child, I want no more talk. When this night is over I leave here--nor shall I ever willingly cross your path again. You are another woman's child, and so long as you live, so long as we are brought into contact, the sting of the past must ever remain in my heart. Go to your bed, and leave me to watch and wait until the morning."