CHAPTER VII
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.