STRONGER THAN DEATH
From the time of her aunt's going to Leeson Butte to the morning of
her return to the farm Joan passed 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
superstition, 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
anticipated 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 passed 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
passion. 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 attitudes 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 attitude 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 passing
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. God 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
Butte 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 passion 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 passionate 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 passed 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."
The old woman's domination was strong--it was so strong that Joan felt
appalled before the terrible mental force she was putting forth. The
horror of her diseased mind sickened her, and filled her with
something closely allied to terror. But she would not submit. Her love
was greater than her courage, her power to resist for herself. She was
thinking of those two men, but most of all she was thinking of Buck.
She was determined upon another effort. And when that effort was
spent--upon still another.
"Listen to me, aunt," she cried with no longer any attempt at appeal,
with no longer any display of regard for this woman as a relation. "I
am mistress in my own house, and I shall do as I choose. I, too, shall
sit up and you will have to listen to me."
Mercy smiled ironically.
"Yes, you are mistress in your own house, so long as you do not
attempt to interfere with my plans. Sit up, girl, if you choose, and
talk. I am prepared to listen even though your twaddle bores me."
A sound caught Joan's attention, and the desperate position of her
lover and his friend set thought flashing swiftly through her mind.
The sound was of Mrs. Ransford moving in the kitchen.
"Then listen to this," she cried. "You have told me that I am cursed.
You have told me that death and disaster must follow me wherever I go.
I love Buck. It is the first and only time I shall ever love. I know
that. He is the love of my whole life. Without him, without his love,
life to me is inconceivable. He and his love are so precious to me
that I would give my life for his at any moment--now, if need be. I
want you to know that. You have armed yourself so that I shall not
interfere with your plans. I tell you it is useless, for I shall warn
him--cost me what it may."
She watched the other closely. She watched for the effect of her
words--every one of which was spoken from the bottom of her heart. The
effect was what she anticipated. She knew this woman's expressed
intention was deliberate, and would be carried out. One hand moved
toward her lean bosom, and Joan knew, without doubt, what she had to
face. Turning her back deliberately she moved across to the window,
which was wide open in a vain attempt to cool the superheated room,
and took up her place near the table, so that she was in full view of
her aunt's insane eyes. Then she went on at once--
"You call it justice that you would mete out to the Padre. I tell you
it is a ruthless, cold-hearted revenge, which amounts to deliberate
murder. It is murder because you know he cannot prove his innocence.
That, perhaps, is your affair. But Buck's life is mine. And in
threatening the Padre you threaten him, because he will defend his
friend to the last. Perhaps by this, in your insane vanity, you hope
to justify yourself as a seer and prophetess, instead of being
forced to the admission that you are nothing but a mountebank, an
unscrupulous mountebank--and even worse. But I will humor you. I will
show you how your own words are coming back on you. I had almost
forgotten them, so lost was I in my foolish belief in your powers. You
told me there was salvation for me in a love that was stronger than
death. Well, I have found that love. And if, as you claim, there is
truth in your science, then I challenge you, the disaster and death
you would now bring about cannot--will not take place. You are only a
woman of earthly powers, a heartless creature, half demented by your
venomous hatred of a good man. Your ends can, and will be defeated."
She paused, breathing hard with the emotion which the effort of her
denunciation had inspired, and in that pause she beheld a vision of
devilish hatred and purpose such as she could never have believed
possible in her aunt.
"You would rebel! You challenge me!" cried Mercy, springing from her
chair with a movement almost unbelievable in so ailing a creature.
"You are mad--utterly mad. It is not I who am insane, but you--you.
You call me a mountebank. What has your life been? Has not everything
I have told you been part of it? Even here--here. Did I not tell you
you could not escape your curse? Have you escaped it? And you think
you can escape it now." She laughed suddenly, a hideous laugh which
set Joan shuddering. "The love you have found must prove itself. You
say it is the love that will save you. I tell you it is not. Nothing
can save this man now. Nothing can save your Buck if he interferes
now. Nothing can save you, if you interfere now. I tell you I have
taken every care that there is no loophole of escape. No earthly power
can serve you."
"No earthly power?" Joan echoed the words unconsciously, while she
stood fascinated by that terrible face so working with malignant
hatred.
But only for a moment it held her. Her love was stronger that all her
woman's fears. Her Buck was in danger, and that other. The warning.
She must get that warning to them.
Suddenly she leant forward upon the table as though to emphasize what
she had to say.
"Whatever happens to-night, aunt," she cried, her big eyes glowing in
a growing excitement, her red-gold hair shining like burnished copper
in the light from the lamp which was so near to it, "I hope God may
forgive you this terrible wicked spirit which is driving you. Some day
I may find it in my heart to forgive you. That which I have to do you
are driving me to, and I pray God I may succeed."
As the last word left her lips she seized the lamp from the table,
and, with all her strength, hurled it through the open window. As it
sped it extinguished itself and crashed to the ground outside, leaving
the room in utter darkness. At the same instant she sprang to the sill
of the open window, and flung herself from the room. As she, too, fell
to the ground a shot rang out behind her, and she felt the bullet tear
through her masses of coiled hair.
But her excitement was at fever heat. She waited for nothing. Her
lover's life was claiming every nerve in her body. His life, and that
other's. She scrambled to her feet and dodged clear of the window,
just as a chorus of harsh execration reached her ears. She looked
toward the barns and hay corrals whence the sound came, and, on the
instant, a hideous terror seized upon her. The barn was afire! The hay
had just been fired! And, in the inky blackness of the night, the
ruddy glow leapt suddenly and lit up the figures of a crowd of men,
now shouting and blaspheming at the result of the shot from the house.
For one moment Joan stood still, trembling in every limb, heedless of
the vengeful creature behind her. She was overwhelmed by the now utter
and complete hopelessness of her case. Her horses were in the barn
which had been fired. And they were her only means of reaching her
lover.
Then in a moment, as she beheld the shouting crowd coming toward the
house, voicing their intent to burn that, along with its occupants,
her mind went back to those still within. The wretched woman, whose
death by burning might save the Padre, and her rough but faithful
housekeeper. Regardless of all consequences to herself, now regardless
even of the lives of those two men she had hoped to save, she ran back
to the house.
Flight alone could save the women inside from this drunken crowd.
Flight--and at once. For, resentful at the shot which had felled one
of their comrades, the lawless minds of these creatures saw but one
course to pursue. Well enough Joan knew their doctrine of a life for a
life. She must go back. She must save those two from this ravening
horde.