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.”
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 talk like that are fools. That is why I say you, too, are unchanged.” The woman’s eyes lit. They suddenly became filled with that cold fire which Joan knew so well. “You think you are changed. You think by an effort of will—your own, combined with that of another, you have escaped that which has followed you from your birth. You think that every disaster that has ever occurred to those with whom you have been associated, and those who have belonged to you, can be accounted for naturally. You, with your foolish brain, and the equally foolish brain of that other. Why, girl, you deny it in every line of the letter you wrote me. It is there—there in every word, in its very atmosphere. You are lying to yourself under the influence of this other—who lies to you. Prove what you say if you want me to believe. The scientific mind must have proof, undeniable, irrefutable proof. Statements, mere statements of unbelief are meaningless things which do not convince even their authors. If you need to convince yourself, and convince me, then engage yourself to some man, marry him, and I tell you now you will 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 to marry. I am going to marry the man I love more than life itself.”
Joan had risen from her seat. She stood erect, her beautiful head thrown back. An ecstatic light shone in the deep velvet softness of her eyes. But even as she spoke a sudden paling lessened the delicate bloom of her cheeks.