Lou was able to climb to her saddle with Dan's assistance, though she
moved very feebly, and her white, drawn face was that of one who had
been stricken with a mortal hurt. But once safely mounted, with less
strain on her muscles, a little strength flowed back into her, so that
she sat steadily enough as the two started back at a walk over the way
down which they had ridden so furiously. By the time the town was left
well behind, the fresh air and the motion had restored her faculties in
part, both physical and mental. But with the clearing of her brain came
an agony of realization almost unendurable. She urged her horse to its
full speed, fain to put all distance possible between her and the
detestable scene on which she had just looked. Indeed, the instinct of
flight in this crisis of her fate was dominant. Her one desire was to
flee to the ends of the earth, to escape forever from all that had been.
Throughout the years of her life hitherto, Lou had experienced no real
anguish. Her sorrows, great though some of them had seemed to her as
child and woman, had been essentially trivial, over trivial things. She
had never known the ills of poverty. The death of her father had
occurred while yet she, the only child, was too young to grieve deeply
or long. Her mother's death had occurred some years after her marriage,
when she had been weaned from the old home-life. In truth, all her years
had been pleasant ones. The sum of her happiness had been far beyond
that of most. The love between her and her husband had been a beautiful
one, in which she had found supreme content. It had been crowned by the
birth of the child. It had held the promise of serenely joyous years to
come.... And now, the catastrophe! Here was the end of all things. Doubt
of her husband's loyalty had never tainted her devotion. She had
believed utterly in his cleanness, his wholesome manhood. And now, in
an instant, the whole fabric of her life was in shreds, beyond any
possibility of reweaving; befouled beyond any possibility of purifying.
All her happiness had been an illusion, the gracious charm of it only a
mask that covered the ugly truth.
Lou had never a doubt concerning that truth. With her own eyes, she had
witnessed it. She had seen Jim in drunken debauch with the painted
woman, who had boasted that this lover came always at her call. The wife
had seen her husband fondled openly by a wanton in a public place, had
seen the creature holding the glass to that husband's lips. Dan McGrew
had plotted well. By his intrigue, he had destroyed absolutely all her
faith and happiness.
The humiliation of the revelation sharpened the torture. It would not
have been quite so terrible, Lou thought, if Jim had loved some woman of
a decent sort. But the loathesomeness of being scorned for that infamous
woman of the dance-hall--! The wife writhed under the ignominy: that a
being so sordid should have ousted her from her husband's heart. His
infatuation for one so base proved his entire worthlessness. He was but
the gross, soiled caricature of her ideal. The idol of gold which she
had worshiped was shown to be of clay--clay filthy and corrupt.
Dan McGrew realized, to some extent at least, the anguish of the woman
at whose side he rode. Had it been consistent with his purposes, he
would have spared her that suffering. In his way, he sympathized with
her keenly. Yet the fact that her grief was wholly of his making, had no
cause whatsoever except the visible lie which he had built for her eyes
to see--the fact that he alone had thrust the iron into her soul
troubled Dangerous Dan not at all. He had no remorse, though he pitied
her. He was absolutely without compunction for the misery he had
wrought. Dangerous Dan was a strong man, save for his vices. He was a
hard man as well. What he desired, he meant to take, and he was
ruthless and unscrupulous as to the manner of his taking. More than
anything else in the world, he desired to possess for his own Lou
Maxwell. To that end, he had concocted his scheme of villainy. The
woman's present agony was a necessary part in the success of his
plotting. So, though he was sorry for her whom he had thus fearfully
wronged, he felt no vestige of regret--only exultation. In his way, Dan
McGrew loved Lou. His love for her was, indeed, the chief passion of his
life. But his love, like that of many another man, was wholly selfish.
She was necessary to his happiness. That he must destroy her happiness
in order to secure his was of no importance. Moreover, with the egotism
of a strong man, he was confident that he would be able in the days to
come to make her happier than she had ever been before.
Now, on the ride, Dan discreetly kept silence. He could follow well
enough the workings of the woman's mood, and he believed that it would
be unwise at this time to attempt the direction of her thoughts. It
seemed to him certain that under the circumstances she must inevitably
reach the conclusion he desired. There might be danger that a suggestion
from him would provoke suspicion, though this possibility was remote,
after the effectiveness of the scene on which she had looked.
Nevertheless, despite his confidence in a victorious issue of the
affair, Dan was glad when Lou went forward at full speed. He, like
Fingie Whalen, knew that the influence of the drug on Jim Maxwell would
be only of a temporary sort, and that soon the ranch-owner would recover
consciousness. Just how long an interval there might be before the
husband's return to the ranch, Dan could not tell. But, because he was
in a fever of impatience for a rapid development of events, he rejoiced
over the haste in which they rode, and welcomed with a sigh of relief
their arrival at the ranch.
As Lou dismounted, Nell came running from the porch with a rapturous cry
of greeting. The mother dropped to her knees, and gathered the girl into
her arms, with passionate kisses. She realized, with bitter
self-reproach, that in all this time of trial she had had not a single
thought for the daughter whom she so loved. In her humiliation as a wife
she had forgotten her obligation as a mother. Now, abruptly, the
shameful significance to the daughter of what had befallen was borne in
upon Lou's consciousness.
"He is unworthy ever to look on her face again." She was unaware that in
the intensity of her feeling she had spoken aloud with deliberate
emphasis.
Nell, already somewhat perplexed by the ardor of these caresses, became
even a little frightened by the unfamiliar expression on her mother's
face, and by the sternly spoken words, which she did not understand. She
was relieved when, the next moment, she was released, and she hurried
off to her favorite nook in the rose-garden, where she might be alone to
puzzle over the meaning of it all.
Unlike the child, Dan McGrew understood exactly the wife's ejaculation,
and he knew that he had achieved his end. Without invitation, but quite
as a matter of course, he walked at Lou's side as she ascended the steps
and entered the living-room. She accepted his company without
remonstrance, indifferently. It was only after she had sunk down into a
low easy chair, where she lay back wearily with closed eyes, while she
drew off her gauntlets, that Dan McGrew finally dared to address her
explicitly:
"You must leave him, of course," he said gently. His voice was very
grave and kindly. It came with something of a shock to the woman's
ears--she had forgotten him so completely in the self-absorption of her
mood. But, too, there was something soothing to her in the manner of his
utterance. She became aware that here was one to aid her in the
accomplishment of things to be done. She no longer remembered how,
within the hour, she had execrated this man who now stood before her.
She had become oblivious of the insult he had so recently put upon her.
The revelation of her husband's treachery obsessed her mind to the
exclusion of all else. So, she was fully disposed to accept the
assistance of Dan McGrew in this emergency. She was ready to acquiesce
in his suggestions for her guidance in escaping from this place which
her husband had polluted. She sat up in a quick access of energy.
"Yes," she said harshly, "I must leave him--at once." Her animation
grew. Her face, which had been pallid a moment before, was flushed with
eagerness. Her expression became resolute. "I must take Nell away from
him. I don't want him ever to set eyes on her again--he's not fit."
Dan forbore comment. There needed from him no condemnation of the
husband. The wife's conviction as to Jim's guilt was complete. So he
avoided Lou's reference to her husband's culpability, and spoke to the
point:
"You want to get away without seeing him again," he remarked, in a tone
of positiveness, as if the matter admitted of no doubt.
"Yes," the wife answered. "It would be too horrible to see him again!
And for Nell--"
Dan McGrew nodded sympathetically.
"It would only mean a nasty row," he agreed. "You might as well spare
yourself that--and spare the child, too," he concluded, craftily. For he
realized that Lou would fly fast and far for the child's sake, if not
for her own. He detested the necessity of the child's presence in their
flight, but he recognized the fact that it was a necessity, and
therefore to be endured--even, as far as possible, to be turned to
advantage.
"Yes," Lou continued, "we must hurry as fast as we can, for I suppose
there's no telling when Jim might return. And it would be dreadful to
run into him in the town, on the way to the train."
Dan McGrew nodded assent.
"It would, indeed!" he declared. "In the condition he's in now there's
no telling what he might do."
Lou shuddered at the memory of her husband's sodden face, as she had
seen it resting on the breast of the woman in Murphy's saloon.
"We must not meet him!" she declared desperately. "It would be too
terrible to have him see Nell." She pressed her hands to her bosom as if
to hold back the emotion that surged within her. "More dreadful for Nell
to see him. I want her to have a clean memory of her father, whatever he
is."
"We can avoid any danger of meeting him," Dan McGrew asserted, with a
brisk tone of confidence that reassured his listener. "We'll just ride
across country to the main line. Do you know the road? I have only a
general idea."
Lou was all eagerness over the suggestion.
"Yes, yes," she exclaimed excitedly; "that is the way to do it. I know
the road. We must get ready and start at once. But you don't need to go
with us."
Dan McGrew spoke decisively:
"I've got you into this mess, Lou, and it's up to me to see the thing
through. I want to help you in any way I can--and just now you need
help." His tone was firm, yet tender, with a note of devotion in it that
touched the distraught woman. She sprang to her feet and held out both
her hands, which were seized in a warm clasp.
"Thank you, Dan," she said gently. "God knows I need help."
Then, forthwith, she became all animation. She summoned her maid, and
ordered that two small bags which could be carried on horseback should
be packed with necessaries for herself and Nell. At Dan's suggestion,
she sent an order to the stables for Nell's pony and two fresh mounts to
serve for Dan and herself. These things done, it occurred to her that
she must leave some explanation of her departure for her husband on his
return. She seated herself at his desk, and wrote hurriedly and briefly,
in distaste for even this indirect contact with the man who had wronged
her.
_Dear Jim_:
I know all. I do not want to be in your path, so am going away.
You love another, so will perhaps not miss me.
Good-by, Jim.
I forgive you.
LOU.
Lou, when she had set her name to the short form of words, thrust the
sheet into an envelope, which she addressed with the single word, "Jim."
For long seconds she sat staring at the lines she had last traced--that
name which had been through so many years the symbol of her happiness,
which was now become the symbol of vileness and misery. The horror of it
smote her anew, essenced in that name which had been her blessing, which
was now become her curse.
The sound of the hoofs stamping on the gravel before the door aroused
her. The maid came to announce that the horses were in readiness, with
the bags strapped to the saddles. With the maid came Nell, who had
needed no preparation, since she was already in her riding clothes. Lou
took the girl in her arms and kissed the exquisite dark face with a
tenderness that was like a benediction.... She had no least hint that
this was destined to be the last time her lips should touch the soft
roundness of the girlish cheek.
"You are to ride with me this afternoon, Nell," she said. "Don't ask any
questions now. I'll tell you all about it by-and-by. It's a surprise."
She shivered over the words. A surprise--yes, a surprise that meant the
end of all things. So, presently, the three went forth from the
living-room, and across the porch, and down the steps, and got into the
saddles of the waiting horses. Without any exchange of words among them,
they rode away. None of the three looked back--Nell, because she had no
guess as to the sinister meaning of this parting; Dan, because even his
calloused soul felt a twinge of shame over the ruins that he left
behind; Lou, because she could not.