THE OVERTONE
When a crowd gathers in the street, there rises a babel of voices, a
confused and pointless clamor, no matter what the purpose of the
gathering, until some man who can think as well as shout begins to
speak. Then the crowd murmurs a moment, and after a few seconds
composes itself to listen.
So it was with the noise in the hall when Pierre and Jacqueline began
to dance. First there were smiles of derision and envy around them,
but after a moment a little hush came where they moved, and then men
began to note the smile of the girl and the whiteness of that round
throat, and the grace of the bare, tapering arms.
So a whisper went around the room, and there began a craning of necks
and an exchange of nods. All that crowd became in a moment no more
than the chorus which fills the background of the stage when the
principals step out from the wings.
They could not help but dance well, for they had youth and grace and
strength, and the glances of applause and envy were like wine to
quicken their blood, while above all they caught the overtone of the
singing violins, and danced by that alone. The music ended with a long
flourish just as they whirled to a stop in a corner of the room. At
once an eddy of men started toward them.
"Who shall it be?" smiled Pierre. "With whom do you want to dance?
It's your triumph, Jack."
She was alight and alive with the victory, and her eyes roved over the
crowd.
"The big man with the tawny hair."
"But he's making right past us."
"No; he'll turn and come back."
"How do you know?"
For answer she glanced up and laughed, and he realized with a singular
sense of loneliness that she knew many things which were beyond his
ken. Some one touched his arm, and a voice, many voices, beset him:
"How's the chances for a dance with the girl, partner?"
"My name's McCormack. Riley? Glad to know you. I've got a flask on
the hip, Riley; what's the chance of making a trade on this next dance?"
"How do we swap partners? Mine is the rangy girl with the red topknot.
Not much on looks, Bill, but a cayuse don't cover ground on his looks.
Dance? Say, Bill, she'll rock you to sleep!"
"This dance is already booked," Pierre answered, and kept his eyes on
the tall man with the scarred face and the resolute jaw. He wondered
profoundly why Jacqueline had chosen such a partner.
At least she had prophesied correctly, for the big man turned toward
them just as he seemed about to head for another part of the hall. The
crowd gave way before him, not that he shouldered them aside, but they
seemed to feel the coming of his shadow before him, and separated as
they would have done before the shadow of a falling tree.
In another moment Pierre found himself looking up to the giant. No
mask could disguise him, neither cover that long, twisting mark of
white down his cheek, nor hide the square set of the jaw, nor dim the
keen steady eyes. Upon him there was written at large: "This is a man."
And there came to Pierre an exceedingly great uneasiness in his right
hand, and a twitching of the fingers low down on his thigh where the
familiar holster should have hung. His left hand rose, following the
old instinct, and touched beneath his throat where the cold cross lay.
He was saying easily: "This is your dance, isn't it?"
"Right, Bud," answered the big man in a mellow voice as great as his
size. "Sorry I can't swap partners with you, but I hunt alone."
An overwhelming desire to get a distance between himself and this huge
unknown came to Pierre.
He said: "There goes the music. You're off."
And the other, moving toward Jack, leaned down a little and murmured at
the ear of the outlaw: "Thanks, Pierre."
Then he was gone, and Jacqueline was laughing over his shoulder back to
Pierre.
Through his daze and through the rising clamor of the music, a voice
said beside him: "You look sort of sick, dude. Who's your friend?"
"Don't you know him?" asked Pierre.
"No more than I do you; but I've ridden the range for ten years around
here, and I know that he's new to these parts. If I'd ever glimpsed
him before, I'd remember him. He'd be a bad man in a mix, eh?"
And Pierre answered with devout earnestness: "He would."
"But where 'd you buy those duds, pal? Hey, look! Here's what I've
been waiting for--the Barneses and the girl that's visitin' 'em from
the East."
"What girl?"
"Look!"
The Barnes group was passing through the door, and last came the
unmistakable form of Dick Wilbur, masked, but not masked enough to hide
his familiar smile or cover the well-known sound of his laughter as it
drifted to Pierre across the hall, and on his arm was a girl in an
evening dress of blue, with a small, black mask across her eyes, and
deep-golden hair.
Pausing before she swung into the dance with Wilbur, she made a gesture
with the white arm, and looked up laughing to big, handsome Dick.
Pierre trembled, and his heart beat once and stopped.
As he watched, the song which Dick had sung came like a monotonous,
religious chant within him:
They call me poor, yet I am rich
In the touch of her golden hair;
My heart is filled like a miser's hands
With the red-gold of her hair.
The only sky I ride beneath
Is the dear blue of her eyes,
The only heaven I desire
Is the blue of her dear eyes.
But even the memory of the song died in him while he watched her dance,
and saw the lights and shadows flit across the smooth shoulders; and
when he saw the hands of Wilbur about her, a red rage came up in him.
Dick in passing, marked that stare above the heads of the crowd, and
frowned with trouble. The hungry eyes of Pierre followed them as they
circled the hall again; and this time Wilbur, perhaps fearing that
something had gone wrong with Pierre, steered close to the edge of the
dancing crowd and looked inquisitively across.
He leaned and spoke to the girl, and she turned her head, smiling, to
Pierre. Then the smile went out, and even despite the mask, he saw
that her eyes had widened. The heart of Pierre grew thunderous with
music. She had stopped and slipped from the arm of Wilbur, and came
step by step slowly toward him like one walking in her sleep.
There, by the edge of the dancers, with the noise of the music and the
laughter and the shuffling feet to cover them, they met. The hands she
held to him were cold and trembling. He only knew that they were
marvelously soft, and that they faltered and closed strongly about his
own.
"Is it you?"
"It is I."
That was all; and then the shadow of Wilbur loomed above them.
"What's this? Do you know each other? It isn't possible! Pierre, are
you playing a game with me?"
But under the glance of Pierre he fell back a step, and reached for the
gun which was not there. They were alone once more.
"Mary--Mary Brown!"
"Pierre!"
"But you are dead!"
"No, no! But you--Pierre----"
"It was a miracle--the cross--that saved me."
"Where can we go?"
"Outside."
"Pierre."
"Yes."
"Hold my arm close--so I'll know it isn't just dreaming. And go
quickly!"
"They are staring at us--the fools--as if they were trying to
understand."
"We'll be followed?"
"Never."
"Do you need a wrap?"
"No."
"But it is cold outside, and your shoulders are bare."
"Then take that cloak. But quickly, Pierre, before we're followed."
He drew it about her; he led her through the door; it clicked shut;
they were alone with the sweet, frosty air about them. She tore away
the mask, and her beauty struck him like the moon when it drops
suddenly through a mist of clouds.
"And yours, Pierre?"
"Not here."
"Why?"
"Because there are people. Hurry. Now here, with just the trees
around us----"
And he tore off the mask.
The white, cold moon shone over them, slipping down between the dark
tops of the trees, and the wind stirred slowly through the branches
with a faint, hushing sound, as if once more a warning were coming to
Pierre this night. He looked up, his left hand at the cross.
"Look down. You are afraid of something, Pierre. What is it?"
"With your arms around my neck, there's nothing in the world I fear.
Mary, I loved you all this time."
"Pierre--and I----"
"But you have grown so tall--so strange--I can hardly feel----"
"And you--so stern and old."
"I never dreamed I could love anything more than the little girl who
lay in the snow, and died there that night."
"And I never dreamed I could smile at any man except the boy who lay by
me that night. And he died."
"What miracle saved you?"
She said: "It was wonderful, and yet very simple. You remember how the
tree crushed me down into the snow? Well, when the landslide moved, it
carried the tree before it; the weight of the trunk was lifted from me.
Perhaps it was a rock that struck me over the head then, for I lost
consciousness. The slide didn't bury me, but the rush carried me
before it like a stick before a wave, you see.
"When I woke I was almost completely covered with a blanket of debris,
but I could move my arms, and managed to prop myself up in a sitting
posture. It was there that my father and his searching party found me;
he had been combing that district all night. They carried me back,
terribly bruised, but without even a bone broken. It was a miracle
that I escaped, and the miracle must have been worked by your cross; do
you remember?"
He shuddered and threw a hand up before his eyes.
"Dearest----"
"It's nothing--but the cross--for every good fortune it has brought me,
it has brought bad luck to others."
"Hush, Pierre. Put your arms around me. I am all yours--all. You
must not think of the trouble or the cross."
He obeyed and drew her close to him, and the warm slender body gave to
him and lay close against his; and her head went back, and the curve of
her soft lips was close to his. He kissed her, reverently, and then,
with passion, the lips, the eyes, the throat, that quivered as if she
were singing.
"Pierre, I have said good night to you every time before I went to
sleep all these years."
"And I've looked for you in the face of every woman."
"And I used to think that a still, small voice answered me out of the
night."
"Oh, my dear, there was a voice; for I've loved you so hard that it
must have been like a hand at your shoulder tapping, and asking you to
remember me. Mary, you are crying."
"I'm so happy; I can't help it. It's as if--as if--Pierre----"
"Dear, my dear."
"Hold me closer. I want to feel your strength around me, so that I
know I can never lose you again."
"Never."
"Tell me again that you love me."
"I love you."
"I love you, Pierre."
Then the wind spoke for them, using the trees for a harp above them.
She looked up to him, and saw the nodding branches above his head, and
higher still, the cold and changeless radiance of the stars. He bent
back her head and stared so grimly down into her eyes that her smile
ceased tremulously.
"Mary, what is the perfume?"
"None, except the scent of the pines and the sweet, cold air of the
night, Pierre."
"There is something more. It's as if the wind had taken all the
fragrance from a thousand miles of wild flowers, and brought them
blended and faint and sweeter than anything else in the world. It is
you, Mary, you are so beautiful. How many men have told you that you
are beautiful?"
"None have told me; at least I've listened to them with only half my
heart."
"What have they told you?"
"Nothing, except words about eyes and lips, and things like that."
"And your hair?"
"Oh, yes, they never forget that."
"Then there is nothing left for me to say, except that God made you so
that I could love you with all my heart. And while I hold you here and
hunt for things to say, my mind goes rushing out to great things--the
sea, the mountains, the wind, the cold, quiet, beautiful stars. But
you are unhappy to hear me. Look! The big tears come one by one in
your eyes, and roll down your face."
"I'm so happy, Pierre, that I cannot help but be sad a little."
"But never after this. We will always be happy."
"Always and always."
"Mary, I have ridden all day over a burning hot desert and come under
the mountains at night and looked up, and I've seen the white, pure
snow with the blue of the sky behind it. You are like that to me. But
you will be cold out here; I musn't go on saying nothings like this."
"I love it, Pierre. I won't have you stop."
"Sit here on this stump--now, I'll sit at your feet."
"No, beside me, please, Pierre."
"I will not move. Give me your hands. Now, when I look up your face
is framed by a tree-top that goes nodding from one side to the other,
and I look up at your eyes and past them at the stars until I know that
our love is like them, and free as the wind. Mary, my dearest, your
cold hand that I kiss is more to me than oceans of silver, or mountains
of gold."
"Now, if we could both die, this would never end. But it will never
end in spite of to-morrow, will it? You will go back home with me."
"Go home with you?"
"Take my hand again. Pierre, what has happened? What have I done?
What have I said?"