Jim explained the affair to Lou, with a bitter emphasis that forbade
questioning as to details.
"Dangerous Dan," he said, unable to avoid a sarcastic inflection on the
adjective, "got into a fight at Murphy's. When I arrived, there were
four on top of him."
"And you pulled them off, I suppose," Lou said, her lips curving to a
smile in which amusement blended with admiration for the stalwart man
who had spoken so curtly.
"I can't say that I exactly pulled them off," Jim answered, with a faint
responsive smile. "Anyhow, I managed to get them off him, one way or
another. That's the reason he's here now--worse luck!"
In the days that followed, Dangerous Dan played the hypocrite to
perfection. He went no more to town. With Jim, he was all amiability,
full of reminiscences concerning the long-ago, when they had pranked
together in the devious ways of boys. Indeed, he was so agreeable that
Jim found himself at least tolerant of the company of this guest, for
whom, without any obligation whatsoever, he had assumed some measure of
responsibility. For he remembered always that phrase in the letter Tom
had written him: "And I think he requires the strong hands of a friend
to keep him in the straight path." He felt an onerous responsibility for
the visitor whom fate thrust upon him, though he detested that
responsibility--and the man.
It was the time of the harvest. Jim was busy with overseeing a multitude
of details in the gathering of the crops. Often, he was away from the
house from dawn to dark. Nell, too, was frequently absent, for she
delighted in the activities of men and horses and machines in the
fields. On her pony, she spent hours in her father's company. The
consequence was that Dan McGrew enjoyed unlimited opportunities of
association with his host's wife. Necessarily, the intimacy of their
former relations had its effect on their present intercourse. Indeed,
Dan made a habit of half-jesting, half-sentimental references to that
time when he had wooed so vainly. The phrase was often on his lips:
"Do you remember, Lou, when we were sweethearts--?"
Lou, for her part, undoubtedly found something pleasant in the
situation. Dan showed himself at his best toward her. Since he knew the
utter hopelessness at this time of winning her from her allegiance, he
strove to hide from her any expression of the passion that burned within
him, though the effort taxed his strength of will to the utmost. But,
because of his restraint, Lou was unsuspicious as to the visitor's
designs, and accepted Dan's proffer of innocent friendship. He was an
amiable and entertaining companion, an agreeable variation from the
somewhat monotonous loneliness of the ranch-house; especially at this
season of the year, when husband and daughter alike so constantly
deserted her. Certainly, she knew that her guest was her lover as
well. But the fact did not militate against him in her regard. On the
contrary, it gave piquancy to their companionship. The unvarying manner
of respect for her as his friend's wife lulled suspicion. She
sympathized with him for his failure in attaining the desire of his
heart. A mild feminine vanity found gratification in the presence of one
so humbly devoted. She had no shred of liking for him, in any deeper
sense. Sometimes, indeed, of an evening, when the three were together
under the lights of the living-room, she found herself comparing the two
men. She admitted that, in a superficial way, Dan was perhaps the
handsomer. His features were as clearly cut as those of some Roman
emperor. The eyes, set wide-apart, gave dignity to his expression. There
was in his air always a suggestion of ruthless strength, even of
lawlessness, as of one who would wreak his will, reckless of
consequence. It was that quality which in his boyhood had won him the
name of Dangerous Dan. He had been given over to escapades, to
exploits of daring prowess, to fights against odds for the sheer love of
fighting. In bodily strength and the usual manly qualities, the two men
were well matched. Lou could see little to choose between them. But her
comparison ended always in a great welling of love for her husband.
There was in his expression a kindliness, in no way weakness, that the
other lacked. And there was, too, something subtle, a quality of the
soul, to be felt, though not to be seen or described, by those with whom
he came in contact. It occurred to Lou once, as she thus meditated while
the men talked together, that Jim's love for music, together with his
skill in its interpretation, was characteristic of the difference
between the two; for to Dan, though he was at times swayed easily and
deeply by music, the art meant little to him, made no component part in
his life.
Strangely enough, it was Jim's music that, very directly, precipitated a
crisis in the situation.
It was a day of languorous heat from a sun like molten brass. Jim, a
little weary after hours among his men, found an opportunity for
leisure, and welcomed it. He rode to the ranch-house, and sighed
gratefully as he entered the cool-shaded porch, where he found Lou busy
with some sewing, while Dan lounged at ease over a pipe. The wife
welcomed her husband gladly, and fussed over him, and brought him
lemonade. Jim was listless at first from fatigue, and listened lazily to
the chatting of his wife and their guest, without taking part. But
presently, he felt himself revived, and entered heartily into the talk.
Perceiving his increased animation, Lou made a request.
"If you're not too tired, Jim," she said eagerly, "I wish you would play
over that melody you worked out the day you received Tom's letter. I do
hope you remember it," she continued, with a little catch of anxiety in
her voice. "Bits of it have been running in my head all day."
Jim rose obediently, with a smile for his wife. As their eyes met, Lou
smiled mischievously.
"Perhaps, you will remember it began with a great lot of startling
chords. But you don't need to repeat them."
Jim grinned appreciatively.
"I'm not in the mood for those chords, as you politely term them,
to-day. But I think I have that song still in my head--and in my heart."
The last words were spoken softly.
From the living-room, a moment later, came a ripping charm of arpeggios
that in their sequence told softly of the melody to come. Then, soon,
the air itself sounded in its joyous, lilting rhythm of a passionate
tenderness.
It was plain that the player was telling the truth of his heart. The
music made a rhapsody of love. Deep within it was a whisper of spiritual
things, of things sacred. But, too, the weaving notes made a mesh of
sensuous splendor. There was a voluptuous spell in the throbbing
cadences.
It was the sensual witchery of the music that probed the emotions of Dan
McGrew, and beat them to swirling revolt against the calmness he had
striven to maintain. The finer, nobler meaning of the love-lyric touched
him not at all. But the sorcery of that exquisite voluptuousness
thrilled in his blood. He sat watching the woman, and his eyes were
aflame. The enchantment of the melody was upon her as well. Body and
soul, she responded in her mood to the mood of the player, whom she
loved, even as he loved her. The oval of her cheeks bore a deepened
rose. The red curves of the lips bent to a tremulous smile. The dark
glory of her eyes shone more radiantly, as she stared, unseeing, into
the distance. The lithe, gracious form was become tense in this moment
of absorbed feeling. Never had Dan McGrew seen her so wonderfully alive,
so vibrant of emotion, so beautiful, so desirable, so altogether
adorable. With the beat of the music lashing on desire, the spectacle of
the woman's loveliness fed the flames of longing, until the fires of
his passion consumed utterly the will that would have held them in
control. The music softened at last to a mere breath of beautiful sound.
Then, a clangor of triumphant harmonies--and silence.
Lou rose quickly, and went into the living-room.
In his fevered imagination, Dan McGrew could see the caress between
husband and wife, and, though he continued to sit immobile, staring
dazedly at the spot where a moment before the woman had been, wrath
surged in him against that other man. By so much as his love for the
woman welled in him, by so much the tide of his hate mounted. For a long
time, he sat there, through ages of torture, as it seemed to him. He
heard Jim go out of the house by the back way. Soon afterward, there
came to his ears the clatter of a horse's hoofs on the gravel of the
drive, and he knew that the ranch-owner was off again to the fields,
though he did not look up to see. With mad eagerness, he was awaiting
the woman's return. Reason no longer had any hold on his mood. He was
helpless in the clutch of passion. The music had softened the fibers of
resolve. The allurement of the love-light that had shone from Lou's face
while she sat listening, had drawn his desire of her into a vortex that
held him powerless against its rush. He had no plan of action, no
thought as to what his course should be. He was conscious only of an
intolerable need of this woman. As the minutes passed, and still she did
not return, the longing mastered him completely. He got to his feet,
with unaccustomed awkwardness, and went into the living-room with
shambling steps wholly unlike his usual elastic tread. He moved
falteringly, as might one in the dark in a strange place. For, in truth,
the mists of passion had settled on his spirit, shrouding and blinding
him.
Lou was reclining in a low easy chair, within a nest of cushions. In the
abandonment of her posture, the suave grace of her body's lines, still
maidenly, rather than matronly, despite her full womanhood, were
clearly revealed to the man's avid eyes. On her face was still the
expression of rapturous tenderness that was not for him, which,
nevertheless, had enthralled him. Dan McGrew, in this hour of folly, was
bereft of judgment utterly. The woman there in the chair, who did not
even turn her head toward him as he entered, was a loadstone that drew
toward her irresistibly every atom of the blood racing in his veins. He
went toward her--without any hesitation or faltering now. All the life
in him seemed in this instant to be at its best, potent as never before,
and not to be denied. So, he moved forward lightly and swiftly. Before
the woman had so much as guessed his presence there beside her, he had
stooped and taken her in his arms.
Lou cried out sharply under the shock of fear in the first second, when
the man's arms closed about her. But, in the next instant, as she felt
herself lifted bodily from her place, and crushed against Dan's breast,
a horrible fear beset her that sapped her strength, and left her limp
within the fierce embrace. Her face was suddenly become pallid. She was
half-swooning under the dreadfulness of the thing that had befallen. Dan
rained kisses on the golden masses of her hair, from which the delicate
perfume penetrated his senses, and inflamed him to new madness. He
loosened his clasp upon her body, in order to raise the white face to
his lips. But then, at last, the energies of the woman were suddenly
restored. A hot flush of mingled shame and anger dyed face and throat.
The heavy lids lifted from the dark eyes, which now were blazing. Her
body tensed, then writhed in an abrupt, violent effort for freedom. Her
action caught the man unawares. She slipped from his arms, and darted
behind the chair in which she had been sitting, so that its bulk was
interposed as a barrier between them.
"Oh, you have dared--!" She broke off, choking over the humiliation of
such an outrage against her womanhood. She was pale and flushed by
turns. Her body was racked by convulsive shudderings. She was wounded to
the depths of her being.
Dan, nevertheless, was without compunction at sight of her distress. He
was still crazed by desire of her--a desire only intensified a
thousand-fold by that brief contact of her within his arms. With a great
leap, he was upon her before she could flee again, had caught her
shoulder, wrenched her about, and, for a second time, swung her to his
breast. The shriek she would have uttered was muffled by his lips on her
mouth.
Jim returned early from the fields that afternoon. His heart was fairly
singing with happiness, as he mounted the steps of the house. His love
was overflowing. All things in life were perfect to him. He halted on
the porch, somewhat surprised that neither Lou nor their guest should be
there. He chanced to glance through the window into the living-room. It
was the very moment when Dan McGrew held the woman strained to his
bosom, his mouth on hers. Jim stared, uncomprehending, unbelieving.
Then, horror fell upon him, enveloped him in a black pall of agony--for
his wife lay supine, unresisting, yielding to the kisses that polluted
purity. But, in another second, Lou found strength to twist her lips
aside, and the cry that had been stifled broke from her. Its appeal was
unmistakable in its frantic suffering. Jim heard and understood, and
answered with a roar of rage, as he hurled himself through the door and
upon the man who thus dishonored him. Lou, released as Dan heard Jim's
shout, shrank away, and stood trembling against the wall, while the two
men reeled back and forth in a frenzied grapple. Their strength was so
well matched that neither at the outset could gain an advantage; for
each was keyed to extreme endeavor by the urge of elemental passions at
their full. Then, as their lurching bodies sent a massive chair
volleying to the floor, Jim's hold was loosened. Dan had time to snatch
the automatic from his pocket--but not time to use it. Before his arm
could be raised to fire, Jim had caught his wrist in a grip not to be
broken. A hip-lock threw Dan backward violently against the table that
stood on one side of the room. Strong though it was, the table yielded
under the impact of the two heavy bodies upon it, and went crashing to
the floor, with the two men atop the splintered boards. The force of the
fall stunned Dan for a moment. The automatic dropped from his released
hand. Jim saw, and seized the weapon. Ere Dan could move, he had
scrambled to his feet, where he stood menacing the fallen man. Perhaps
he would have shot his enemy there and then--but Lou interposed. She had
watched with dilated eyes the fight between the men who loved her. Her
whole feeling had been a desperate prayer for her husband's victory: a
prayer made vital by hate against the man who had so grossly insulted
her. Now at the end, however, a softer, feminine emotion compelled her.
She leaped forward, and clung to her husband's arm.
[Illustration: THE TABLE WENT CRASHING TO THE FLOOR, WITH THE TWO MEN
ATOP THE SPLINTERED BOARDS.]
"No, no, Jim!" she implored him. "Don't shoot! Tell him to go.... Oh, my
God! Tell him to go, Jim."
Dan clambered clumsily to his feet. The muzzle of the automatic stared
at him in vicious threat of death. The issue had left him helpless. He
was too weak for further combat, in the reaction from great emotions. He
stood with downcast eyes, swaying a little unsteadily.
Jim spoke, his voice metallic:
"You hear?" he said. "Get out of here, you dog! I'll send your things to
the hotel to-night. Not a word out of you--damn you!--or I'll kill you
in your tracks."
Husband and wife stood rigidly motionless, watching. The beaten man
ventured no rebellion against the decree. He went out of the room with a
stealthy, slinking haste, as though he feared lest the self-restraint of
his victor might fail. But in his heart was neither remorse nor
despair--only a fiercer hatred of the man, a fiercer love of the woman.