The other, with her cold eyes leveled at her, was quick to observe.
“And who is—your victim?”
Joan’s pallor increased as she stared for a moment with dilating eyes at the woman who could be capable of such cruelty. Then, of a sudden, a protest of such bitterness sprang to her lips that even Mercy Lascelles was startled.
“Oh, God, was there ever such callous heartlessness in human creature? Was there ever such madness in sane woman? You ask me to prove my convictions, you ask me for the one method by which even you can be convinced, and when I show you how far my new faith has carried me you taunt me by asking who is my—victim. Oh, aunt, for the love of all you ever held dear, leave me in peace. Let me prove to you my own destiny, but leave me in peace until I have done so, or—failed. Can you not see that I am trying to preserve my sanity? And by every word and look you are driving me to the verge of madness. The man I love knows all, he and his great friend. He knows all you have ever told me, and his love is the strongest and bravest. He laughs this fate to scorn, he has no fears for himself, or for me. I tell you you shall have your proof. But you must leave me in peace.”
For a moment it almost seemed as if her aunt were abashed at the passion of her protest. She withdrew her cold stare, and, with her jeweled hands folded in her lap, gazed down at the white table-cloth. She waited until Joan dropped despairingly back into her chair, then she looked up, and her glance was full of malicious irony.
“You shall have your way—after to-night. You shall not hear one word of warning from me. But to-night you must let me have my way. You say you believe. I tell you I know. You must do your best, and—fail. Have your way.” She withdrew her gaze and her eyes became introspective. “Who is this man—you say you are going to marry?”
Joan warmed under the change in her aunt’s manner. Her relief at the other’s assurance was almost boundless, although the effect of the woman’s previous attitude was to leave her far less sure of herself.
“It is Buck,” she said impulsively. “He is the great friend of the man from whom I bought this farm. Oh, auntie, wait until you see him. You will realize, as I have, his strength, his goodness. You will have no doubts when you know him. You will understand that he has no fear of any—any supernatural agencies, has no fear of any fancied fate that may be awaiting him. Auntie, he is tall, so tall, and—oh, he’s wonderful. And his name, Buck—don’t you like it? It is so like him. Buck—independence, courage, confidence. And, oh, auntie, I love him so.”
Mercy remained quite unmoved. It almost seemed doubtful if she heard and understood all the simple girlishness in her niece’s rhapsody, so preoccupied she seemed with her own thoughts.