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.