CHAPTER XXIII
THE BRIDGING OF YEARS
It was nearly a week later that Joan paid her visit to the fur fort.
The Padre moved about the room a little uncertainly. Its plainnesstroubled him, but its cleanliness was unquestionable. Both he and Buckhad spent over two hours, earlier in the day, setting the place torights and preparing for their visitor.
He shook his head as he viewed the primitive condition of thefurniture. It was all very, very home-made. There was not one seat hefelt to be suitable to offer to a lady. He was very dissatisfied.Dissatisfied with it all, and particularly with Buck for bringing Joanto this wretched mountain abode. It would have been far better had hecalled at the farm. It even occurred to him now as curious that he hadnever done so before.
Yet perhaps it was not so curious after all. He had been attached tothe home which had sheltered him all those years, the home his own twohands had built. Yes, it was different making a place, building it,driving every nail oneself, setting up every fence post, turning everyclod of soil. It was different to purchasing it, ready-made, or hiringlabor. He had no desire to go near the farm again. That, like otherthings, had passed out of his life forever.
Three times he rearranged the room in the vain hope of giving it anadded appearance of comfort, but the task was hopeless. Finally, hesat down and lit his pipe, smiling at his almost childish desire thathis home should find favor in the eyes of the girl Buck was bringingto see him.
Buck had told him very little. He had spoken of the visit, and hintedat Joan's desire for advice. He had been very vague. But then that wasBuck's way in some things. It was not often that he had need to gointo reasons in his intercourse with his friend. Such a perfectunderstanding had always existed between them that they were rarelydiscoursive. He had told the Padre of the shooting, and explained theapparent cause. He had also told him of the reception of the news inthe camp, and how a small section of the older inhabitants had adoptedan attitude of resentment against the innocent cause of it. He hadshown him that there was plainly no sympathy, or very little, for Joanwhen the story was told. And to the elder man this was disquieting.Buck had treated it with the contempt of youth, but the Padre haddetected in it a food for graver thought than he let the boyunderstand.
It would be time enough to break up Buck's confidence should anytrouble develop. In the meantime he had understood that there wassomething like real necessity for him to see this girl. If she neededany help then it was plainly his duty to give it her. And, besides,there was another reason. Buck desired this interview.
He smiled to himself as he thought of the turn events had taken withBuck. He must have been blind indeed if he had not seen from the veryfirst the way things were going. The boy had fallen hopelessly in lovewith the first girl with whom he had definitely been brought intocontact. And why not? Yes, he was rather anxious to see and talk withthis girl who had set the boy's heart on fire.
Yet it seemed strange. Buck had never been anything but a boy to him.He had never really grown up. He was still the small, pathetic figurehe had first encountered on the trail-side. And now here he washopelessly, madly in love with a girl. He would never forget the fireof jealousy that had lain behind his words when Buck had told him thatIke had forcibly kissed her.
His thought lost its more sympathetic note, and he became grave. Lovehad come into this youngster's life, and he wondered in what directionit would influence it. He knew well enough, no one better, how muchdamage love could do. He knew well enough the other, and right side ofthe picture. But Buck was an unusual experiment. Even to him, who knewthe boy so well, he was still something of a problem in many ways. Onething was certain. He would get the trouble badly, and time alonecould show what ravages and complications might be forthcoming.
He rose from his chair and knocked out his pipe. Then, in smilingdismay, he sniffed the air. He had done the very thing he had meant toavoid. He shook his white head, and opened wide both the window andthe door in the hope that the fresh mountain air would sweeten theatmosphere before the girl's arrival.
But his hopes were quickly dashed. As he took up his position in thedoorway, prepared to extend her the heartiest greeting, he heard theclatter of hoofs on the trail, and the man and the girl rode into thestockade.
Buck had departed to perform his usual evening tasks. He had gone towater and feed the horses, to "buck" cord-wood for the stove, and todraw the water for their household purposes. He was full early withhis work, but he was anxious that the Padre and Joan should remainundisturbed. Such was his faith in the Padre that he felt that on thisvisit depended much of the girl's future peace of mind.
Now the white-haired man and the girl were alone--alone with the ruddywestering sun pouring in through window and door, in an almosthorizontal shaft of gracious light. Joan was sitting bending over thecook-stove, her feet resting on the rack at the foot of the oven, herhands outstretched to the warming glow of the fire. The evenings inthe hills, even in the height of summer, were never without a nip ofcold which drifted down from the dour, ages-old glaciers crowning thedistant peaks. She was talking, gazing into the glowing coals. She waspiecing out her story as it had been told her by her Aunt Mercy,feeling that only with a full knowledge of it could this wise oldwhite-haired friend of Buck's understand and help her.
The Padre was sitting close under the window. His back was turned toit, so that his face was almost lost in the shadow. And it was aswell. As the story proceeded, as incident after incident was unfolded,the man's face became gray with unspeakable emotion, and from robustmiddle age he jumped to an old, old man.
But Joan saw none of this. Never once did she turn her eyes in hisdirection. She was lost in painful recollections of the hideous thingswith which she seemed to be surrounded. She told him of her birth,those strange circumstances which her aunt had told her of, and whichnow, in her own cold words, sounded so like a fairy tale. She told himof her father and her father's friend, the man who had always been hisevil genius. She told him of her father's sudden good fortune, and ofthe swift-following disaster. She told him of his dreadful death atthe hands of his friend. Then she went on, mechanically reciting theextraordinary events which had occurred to her--how, in each casewhere men sought her regard and love, disaster had followed hard upontheir heels; how she had finally fled before the disaster which doggedher; how she had come here, here where she thought she might be freefrom associations so painful, only to find that escape was impossible.
"I need not tell you what has happened since I came," she finished updully. "You know it all. They say I brought them their luck. Luck? Wasthere ever such luck? First my coming cost a man's life, and now--nowIke and Pete. What is to follow?"
The Padre had not once interrupted her in her long story, and, evennow, as the last sound of her voice died out, it was some momentsbefore he spoke.
The fire in the grate rustled and the cinders shook down.
It was then that the girl stirred as though suddenly made aware of thesilence. Immediately the man's voice, cold--almost harsh, in contrastto his usual tone, startled her.
"'Rest' is not your name," he said. "You have changed your name--tofurther aid your escape from----"
"How do you know that?" Then the girl went on, wondering at the man'squickness of understanding. "I had not intended telling you. But itdoesn't matter. Nothing seems to matter. Evidently my disguise isuseless with you. No, my name is not Rest. My father was CharlesStanmore."
The man made no reply. He did not move. His keen eyes were on thered-gold hair so neatly coiled about the girl's head. His lips werecompressed, and a deep frown had disturbed the usual serenity of hisbroad brow.
For a moment Joan bowed her head, and her hands clasped tightly asthey were held toward the fire. Presently her voice sounded again. Itbegan low, held under a forced calm.
"Is there no hope?" she implored him. "Buck said you could help me.What have I done that these things should curse my life? I only wantpeace--just a little peace. I am conten
t to live and die just as I am.I desire nothing more than to be left--alone."
"Who told you--all this?" The Padre's voice had no sympathy.
"My aunt. Aunt Mercy."
"You were--happy before she told you?"
"Yes."
"Why did she tell you?"
"I don't know. At least--yes, she told me so as to warn me. So that Imight avoid bringing disaster upon those whom I had no desire tohurt."
The Padre rose from his seat and crossed to where the girl wassitting. He stood for a moment just behind her chair. Then, verygently, he laid one sunburnt hand upon her shoulder.
"Little girl," he said, with a wonderful kindliness that started thelong-threatened tears to the girl's eyes, "you've got a peck oftrouble inside that golden head of yours. But it's all in there.There's none of it outside. Look back over all those things you'vetold me. Every one of them. Just show me where your hand in them lies.There is not a disaster that you have mentioned but what possesses itsperfectly logical, natural cause. There is not one that has not beenduplicated, triplicated, ah! dozens and dozens of times since thisquaint old world of ours began. You believe it is due to yourinfluence because a silly old woman catches you in an overwroughtmoment and tells you so. She has implanted a parasite in your littlehead that has stuck there and grown out of all proportion. Believe me,child, you cannot influence the destinies of men. You have no say inthe matter. As we are made, so we must work out our own salvation. Ithas been your lot to witness many disasters, but had these thingsoccurred with other girls as the central figure, would you haveattributed this hideous curse to their lives? Would you? Never. Butyou readily attribute it to your own. I am an old man my dear; olderto-day, perhaps, by far than my years call for. I have seen so much ofmisery and trouble that sometimes I have thought that all life is justone long sea of disaster. But it isn't--unless we choose to make itso. You are rapidly making yours such. You are naturally generous, andkind, and sympathetic. These things you have allowed to develop in youuntil they have become something approaching disease. Vampires suckingout all your nervous strength. Abandon these things for a while. Livethe life the good God gave you. Enjoy your living moments as you wereintended to enjoy them. And be thankful that the sun rises eachmorning, and that you can rise up from your bed refreshed and readyfor the full play of heart, and mind, and limbs. Disasters will go onabout you as they go on about me, and about us all. But they do notbelong to us. That is just life. That is just the world and itsscheme. There are lessons in all these things for us to learn--lessonsfor the purification of our hearts, and not diseases for our silly,weak brains. Now, little girl, I want you to promise that you willendeavor to do as I say. Live a wholesome, healthy life. Enjoy allthat it is given you to enjoy. Where good can be done, do it. Whereevil lies, shun it. Forget all this that lies behind you, and--Live!Evil is merely the absence of Good. Life is all Good. If we deny thatgood, then there is Evil. Live your life with all its blessings, andyour God will bless _you_. This is your duty to yourself; to yourfellows; to life; to your God."
Joan had risen from her seat. Her face was alight with a hope that hadnot been there for many days. The man's words had taken hold of her.Her troubled mind could not withstand them. He had inspired her with afeeling of security she had not known for weeks. Her tears were nolonger tears of despair. They were tears of thankfulness and hope. Butwhen she spoke her words seemed utterly bald and meaningless toexpress the wave of gratitude that flooded her heart.
"I will; I will," she cried with glistening eyes. "Oh, Padre!" shewent on, with happy impulse, "you don't know what you've done forme--you don't know----"
"Then, child, do something for me." The man was smiling gravely downinto the bright, upturned face. "You must not live alone down there atthe farm. It is not good in a child so young as you. Get somerelative to come and share your home with you."
"But I have no one--except my Aunt Mercy."
"Ah!"
"You see she is my only relative. But--but I think she would come if Iasked her."
"Then ask her."
* * * * *
The Padre was sitting in the chair that Joan had occupied. He too wasbending over the stove with his hands outstretched to the warmingblaze. Perhaps he too was feeling the nip of the mountain air. Feelingit more than usual to-night. Buck was sitting on the edge of the tableclose by. He had just returned from taking Joan back to the farm.
The young man's journey home had been made in a condition of mentalexhilaration which left him quite unconscious of all time anddistance. The change wrought in Joan had been magical, and Caesar, foronce in his life, felt the sharp spur of impatience in the man's eagerdesire to reach his friend and speak something of the gratitude hefelt.
But habit was strong upon Buck, and his gratitude found no outlet inwords when the moment came. Far from it. On his arrival he found thePadre sitting at their fireside without even the most ordinary welcomeon his lips. A matter so unusual that it found Buck dumb, waiting forthe lead to come, as he knew it inevitably would, in the Padre's owngood time.
It took longer than he expected, however, and it was not until he hadprepared their frugal supper that the elder man stirred from his moodycontemplation of the fire.
He looked up, and a smile struggled painfully into his eyes.
"Hungry, Buck?" he inquired.
"So!"
"Ah! then sit right down here, boy, an' light your pipe. There'sthings I want to say--first."
"Get right ahead." Buck drew up a chair, and obediently filled and lithis pipe.
"Life's pretty twisted," the Padre began, his steady gray eyes smilingcontemplatively. "So twisted, it makes you wonder some. That girl'shappier now, because I told her there were no such things as cusses.Yes, it's all queer."
He reached out and helped himself from Buck's tobacco pouch. Then he,too, filled and lit his pipe.
"You've never asked me why I live out here," he went on presently."Never since I've known you. Once or twice I've seen the question inyour eyes, but--it never stayed there long. You don't ask manyquestions, do you, Buck?"
The Padre puffed slowly at his pipe. His manner was that of a manlooking back upon matters which had suddenly acquired an addedinterest for him. Yet the talk he desired to have with this youngsterinspired an ill-flavor.
"If folks want to answer questions ther' ain't no need to ask 'em."Buck's philosophy interested the other, and he nodded.
"Just so. That's how it is with me--now. I want to tell you--whatyou've never asked. You'll see the reason presently."
Buck waited. His whole manner suggested indifference. Yet there was athoughtful look in his dark eyes.
"That girl," the Padre went on, his gaze returning to a contemplationof the fire. "She's put me in mind of something. She's reminded me howfull of twists and cranks life is. She's full of good. Full of goodthoughts and ideals. Yet life seems to take a delight in impressingher with a burden so unwholesome as to come very nearly undoing allthe good it has endowed her with. It seems queer. It seems devilishhard. But I generally notice the harder folk try in this world theheavier the cross they have to carry. Maybe it's the law of fitness.Maybe folks must bear a burden at their full capacity so that theresult may be a greater refining. I've thought a lot lately. SometimesI've thought it's better to sit around and--well, don't worry withanything outside three meals a day. That's been in weak moments. Yousee, we can't help our natures. If it's in us to do the best weknow--well, we're just going to do it, and--and hang the result."
"H'm." Buck grunted and waited.
"I was thinking of things around here," the other went on. "I waswondering about the camp. It's a stinking hole now. It's full ofeverything--rotten. Yet they think it's one huge success, and theyreckon we helped them to it."
"How?"
"Why, by feeding them when they were starving, and so making itpossible for them to hang on until Nature opened her treasure-house."
Buck nodded.
"I se
e."
"All I see is--perhaps through our efforts--we've turned loose a hellof drunkenness and debauchery upon earth. These people--perhapsthrough our efforts--have been driven along the very path we wouldrather have saved them from. The majority will end in disaster. Somehave already done so. But for our help this would not have been."
"They'd jest have starved."
"We should not have sold our farm, and Ike and Pete would have beenalive now."
"In Ike's case it would have been a pity."
The Padre smiled. He took Buck's protest for what it was worth.
"Yes, life's pretty twisted. It's always been the same with me.Wherever I've got busy trying to help those I had regard for Igenerally managed to find my efforts working out with a result I neverreckoned on. That's why I am here."
The Padre smoked on for some moments in silence.
"I was hot-headed once," he went on presently. "I was so hot-headedthat I--I insulted the woman I loved. I insulted her beyondforgiveness. You see, she didn't love me. She loved my greatestfriend. Still, that's another story. It's the friend I want to talkabout. He was a splendid fellow. A bright, impetuous gambler on theNew York Stock Exchange. We were both on Wall Street. I was a gamblertoo. I was a lucky gambler, and he was an unlucky one. In spite of mylove for the woman, who loved him, it was my one great desire to helphim. My luck was such that I believed I could do it--my luck and myconceit. You see, next to the woman I loved he was everything in theworld to me. Do you get that?"
Buck nodded.
"Well, in spite of all I could and did do, after a nice run of luckwhich made me think his affairs had turned for the better, a spell ofthe most terrible ill-luck set in. There was no checking it. He rodeheadlong for a smash. I financed him time and again, nearly ruiningmyself in my effort to save him. He took to drink badly. He grewdesperate in his gambling. In short, I saw he had given up all hope.Again I did the best I could. I was always with him. My object was toendeavor to keep him in check. In his drinking bouts I was with him,and when he insisted on poker and other gambling I was there to take ahand. If I hadn't done these things--well, others would have, but witha different object. By a hundred devices I managed to minimize the badresults of his wild, headstrong career.
"Then the end came. Had I been less young, had I been less hopeful forhim, less wrapped up in him, I must have foreseen it. We were playingcards in his apartments. His housekeeper and his baby girl were in adistant room. They were in bed. You see, it was late at night. It wasthe last hand. His luck had been diabolical, but the stakes werecomparatively low. I shall never forget the scene. His nerves werecompletely shattered. He picked up his hand, glanced at it--we wereplaying poker--jack pots--and flung it down. 'I'm done,' he cried,and, kicking back his chair, rose from the table. He moved a pace awayas though to go to the side-table where the whisky and soda stood. Ithought he meant having a drink. His back was turned to me. The nextmoment I heard shots. He seemed to stumble, swung round with a sort ofjerk, and fell face downward across the table.
"I jumped to his assistance. But--he was dead. He had shot himselfthrough the heart and in the stomach. My horror? Well, it doesn'tmatter now. I was utterly and completely unnerved. If I hadn't beenperhaps I should have acted differently. I should have calledhis--housekeeper. I should have summoned the police--a doctor. But Idid none of these. My horror and grief were such that I--fled; fledlike the coward I was. Nor did I simply flee from the house. I lefteverything, and fled from the city that night. It was not until somedays afterward that I realized what my going meant to me. You see, Ihad left behind me, in his housekeeper, the woman I loved--and hadinsulted past forgiveness. I was branded as his murderer. Do you see?She loved him, and was his housekeeper. Oh, there was nothing wrong init! I knew that. His baby girl was the child of his dead wife. Severaltimes I thought of returning to establish my innocence, but somehow myconduct and my story wouldn't have fitted in the eyes of a jury.Besides, there was that insulted woman. She had accused me of themurder. It was quite useless to go back. It meant throwing away mylife. It was not worth it. So I came here."
Buck offered no comment for a long time. Comment seemed unnecessary.The Padre watched him with eyes striving to conceal their anxiety.
Finally, Buck put a question that seemed unnecessary.
"Why d'you tell me now?" he asked. His pipe had gone out and he pushedit into his hip-pocket.
The Padre's smile was rather drawn.
"Because of you. Because of my friend's--baby girl."
"How?"
"The child's name was Joan. Joan Rest is the daughter of CharlesStanmore--the man I am accused of murdering. This afternoon I advisedher to have some one to live with her--a relative. She is sending forthe only one she has. It is her aunt, Stanmore's housekeeper--thewoman I insulted past forgiveness."
Not for an instant did Buck's expression change.
"Why did you advise--that?" he asked.
The Padre's eyes suddenly lit with a subdued fire, and his answer camewith a passion such as Buck had never witnessed in him before.
"Why? Why? Because you love this little Joan, daughter of my greatestfriend. Because I owe it to you--to her--to face my accusers and provemy innocence."
The two men looked long and earnestly into each other's eyes. Then thePadre's voice, sharp and strident, sounded through the little room.
"Well?"
Buck rose from his seat.
"Let's eat, Padre," he said calmly. "I'm mighty hungry." Then he camea step nearer and gripped the elder man's hand. "I'm right with you,when things--get busy."
The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills Page 23