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.
"It was his friend, you say, who has taught you that--you have nothing further to fear? And who is this paragon?"
"He is the man who sold me the farm. He is such a good, kind creature. He is loved and respected by every soul in the place. He is so wise, too,--he is quite wonderful. You know, he only sold his farm to me to keep the miners from starving before they found the gold. He is a sort of foster-father to Buck. He found him when he was a little boy--picked him up on the trail-side. That's about twenty years ago, soon after the Padre--that's what they call him--first came here."
"Yes, yes; but his name?"
Mercy had little patience with such detail as interested the fresh young mind of the girl.
"Moreton Kenyon."
The eyes of the old woman shot a swift glance into the girl's face.
"Moreton--who?"