A BLACK NIGHT
The Padre sat staring into space 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 surreptitiously 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.
"Guess that leddy's down at the farm by now," Buck went on. "Joan was
guessing she'd get around to-day. That's why I didn't go along there."
"Yes, she is there." The Padre lit his pipe and smoked steadily.
Buck turned quickly.
"How d'you know?"
"I met her on the trail. They missed their way this morning and hit
the trail below here, at the foot of the steps."
"You didn't--let her see you?" Buck asked, after a pause.
The Padre smiled.
"I spoke to her. I put her on the right trail."
"You spoke to her?" Buck's tone was half incredulous. "Did
she--recognize you?"
The other nodded.
"You see, I've not changed much--except for my hair."
"What did she do--say?"
The Padre's smile remained.
"Said--I should see her again."
For some moments the two men faced each other across the room. The
yellow lamplight plainly revealed their different expressions. The
Padre's smile was inimitable in its sphinx-like obscurity, but Buck's
eyes were frankly troubled.
"And that means?" Buck's question rang sharply.
"She has neither forgotten nor--forgiven."
Buck returned abruptly to his contemplation of the night, but his
thoughts were no longer the happy thoughts of the lover. Without
knowing it he was proving to himself that there were other things in
the world which could entirely obscure the happy light which the
presence of Joan shed upon his life.
The Padre sat back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head,
while his pipe burned hot and the smoke of it rose thickly. It was the
only outward sign he gave of any emotion. Buck suddenly forgot the
night. A desperate thought was running hotly through his brain. His
friend's admission had set his fertile young brain working furiously.
It was traveling just whither a vivid imagination carried it. A
reckless purpose was swiftly formulating.
After a while he turned again. His resolve was taken on the impulse of
the moment.
"Padre," he said, "you shall never----" But his sentence remained
incomplete. He broke off, listening.
The other was listening too.
There was the sharp cracking of a forest tree--one of those mysterious
creakings which haunt the woodland night. But there was another sound
too. The trained ears of these men caught its meaning on the instant.
It was the vague and distant sound of wheels upon the soft bed of the
sandy trail.
"A heavy wagon, an'--two hosses," said Buck.
The Padre nodded.
"Coming from the direction of the farm. Sounds like the old team,--and
they're being driven too fast for heavy horses. Joan hasn't got a
saddle-horse of her own."
His last remark explained his conviction, and the suggestion found
concurrence in Buck's mind.
They waited, and the sound grew louder. Then, without a word, Buck
passed out of the room.
A few minutes later the rumble of wheels ceased, and the Padre heard
Buck's voice greeting Joan.
* * * * *
A tragic light shone in Joan's eyes as she stood in the centre of the
room glancing from her lover to his friend. She was searching for an
opening for what she had come to say. Her distraught brain was
overwhelmed with thoughts she could not put into words. She had driven
over with the heavy team and wagon because she had no other means of
reaching these two, and unless she reached them to-night she felt that
by morning her sanity must be gone. Now--now--she stood speechless
before them. Now, her brain refused to prompt her tongue. All was
chaos in her mind, and her eyes alone warned the men of the object of
her coming.
It was the Padre's voice that finally guided her. He read without
hesitation or doubt the object of her mission.
"Yes," he said simply. "I am Moreton Bucklaw, the man accused of your
father's murder."
Suddenly the girl's head drooped forward, and her hands covered her
face as though to shut out the terrible truth which the man's words
conveyed.
"O God!" she cried. "Then she was not lying to me."
Buck's eyes, fierce, almost savage at the sight of the girl's despair,
shot a swift glance at his friend. It was a glance which only the
white-haired man could have understood. To the looker-on it would have
expressed a terrible threat. To the Padre it was the expression of a
heart torn to shreds between love and friendship.
"If she told you I killed him--she was lying."
The man had not raised his tone. There was no other emotion in his
manner than distress for the girl's suffering.
Joan looked up, and a gleam of hope struggled through her despair.
"Then it's not true? Oh, I knew it--I knew it! She _was_ lying to me.
She _was_ lying to me as she has always lied to me. Oh, thank God,
thank God!" She dropped back into the chair that had been placed for
her, but which up to that moment she had ignored.
The two men waited for her emotion to pass. Buck as yet had nothing to
say. And the Padre knew that until she was mistress of herself words
would only be wasted.
Presently she looked up. Her eyes were dry, and the agony that had
sent her upon her headlong mission was passing. The Padre's relief
showed in the smile with which he met her glance. Buck stood steadily
regarding her, longing to help her, but knowing that his time had not
come yet.
"Tell me," she said, struggling hard for steadiness. "Tell me all--for
I--I cannot seem to understand anything."
The Padre bowed his head.
"You know your own story. It is all substantially true that Mercy
Lascelles has told you. All, that is, except that she claims I killed
your father. She did not see your father die. I did. I was the only
one who saw him die--by his own hand, a desperate and ruined man.
Listen, and I will tell you the whole story without concealing one
tittle of my own doings and motives."
Half an hour passed while the man's even voice recited without emotion
all the details leading up to Charles Stanmore's death. He kept
nothing back--his own love for the then handsome Mercy, and the
passionate insult he had offered her, when, in her love for the dead
man, she became his housekeeper. He intended that, for Buck's sake,
this girl should know everything, nor had he the least desire for any
concealment on personal account. He did not spare his own folly and
the cowardice of his flight. He felt that concealment of any sort
could only injure Buck, whom at all costs he must not hurt. He even
analyzed, with all the logic at his command, Mercy Lascelles' motives
in accusing him. He declared his belief in her desire to marry the
widowed man and her own consequent hatred of himself, whose presence
was a constant thwart to her plans.
And when he had finished something of the trouble had passed out of
the girl's eyes. The color had returned to her cheeks, and he knew
that he had achieved his purpose.
"I suppose it is terrible to you, child, to hear me speak of your
aunt, one of your own sex, a blood relative, in this way," he said in
conclusion. "But I believe that she is absolutely mad in her hatred of
me. And now that she has discovered my whereabouts nothing less will
satisfy her than that I must stand my trial, and--go to the electric
chair. It is my purpose to stand my trial. It was for that reason,
when I recognized her this morning, before she even saw me, I
purposely thrust myself in her way. I intended that she should not
lack opportunity, and my reason--well, that doesn't much matter."
The girl nodded.
"I think I am glad of your decision," she said simply. "You see, when
you have established your innocence----"
"I fear that result is--doubtful."
The man's admission was quite frank. Nor was there even a suggestion
of regret in his voice. But Joan's heart gripped with alarm. The
thought of such a contingency had never occurred to her simple mind.
He had not committed murder. Then, of course, he was innocent. It had
all been made so simple. Now--now she was suddenly overwhelmed with a
new terror.
"You mean--you cannot prove--your innocence?" she cried incredulously.
"You forget I was the only man with him. I was the last person with
him. And--I fled when I should have stayed to--help. The circumstances
are terribly against me."
Joan's throat had suddenly parched. She struggled to speak, but no
sound came. She looked to Buck for help and the man ran to her side.
The gentle pressure of his protecting arm, as he rested one caressing
hand upon her shoulder, gave her the relief she needed.
"Oh, Buck, Buck! For the love of Heaven say something--do something,"
she appealed. "They will kill him for a crime--of which he is
innocent."
Suddenly the Padre's eyes glowed with a strange light of happiness.
The girl's appeal to Buck had been the one saving touch in the midst
of the cloud of tribulation overshadowing him. The daughter of his
best friend, the daughter of the man he was supposed to have done to
death, had given her verdict. She believed in his innocence. He sighed
with the depth of his thankfulness. He could now face whatever lay
before him with perfect equanimity.
But Buck had yet to play his part in the little drama so swiftly
working itself out. His part was far different to the passive attitude
of the other man. He had no tolerance for the possible sacrifice of an
innocent life at the demand of a crazy woman who had come so nearly
wrecking the life of the girl he loved. As Joan appealed to him his
eyes lit with a sudden fire of rebellion. And his answer came in a hot
rush.
"You think I'm goin' to let him die, Joan?" he cried, the hot blood
staining his cheeks and brow. "I tell you he won't. I swear to you,
sure, sure, he shan't die a murderer's death! I tell you right here,
little gal, ther' ain't a sheriff in the country big enough to take
him. He says he must give up to arrest when the time comes. Wal, he'll
have to do it over my dead body."
His words were in answer to Joan's appeal, but they were hurled at the
man beside the fire, and were a defiance and a challenge from the
depths of a loyal heart.
The Padre's smile was good to see. But he shook his head. And
instantly Joan caught at the enthusiasm which stirred her lover and
hugged it to herself. She sprang to her feet, and a wonderful light
shone in her eyes.
"Buck is right, Padre. He is right," she cried. "Do you hear? You
shall not take the risk, you must not. Oh, Padre! you must live for
our sakes. We know your innocence, then what more is needed after all
these years? For once let us be your mentors--you who have always been
the mentor of others. Padre, Padre, you owe this to us. Think of it!
Think of what it would mean. A murderer's death! You shall not, you
cannot give yourself up. Buck is right. I, too, am with him."
She turned to the man at her side, and, raising her arms, clasped her
hands about his neck.
"Buck--my Buck. Let us swear together that, while we have life, he
shall never be the victim of this crazy, terrible woman. It shall be
our fight--yours and mine."
Buck gazed down into her beautiful, pleading eyes as he clasped her
slim body in his strong, young arms. Her eyes were alight with a love,
radiant in its supremacy over her whole being. Her championship of his
innocent friend would have endeared her a thousandfold had such a
thing been possible. In that moment it was as though her courage, her
loyalty, had completed the bond between them. His jaws gritted tight.
His eyes shone with a fervent resolution.
"It goes, little gal," he cried. "It's our lives for his. It sure
goes--every time."