He moved nearer into the shadow of the honey suckle and seized her hand.

‘Marcia,’ he said in a low voice, ’I can pretend no longer.  I am sick of the farce of treating you as a child before these people, while all the time my heart hungers for you.  I love you, Marcia!’

‘For pity’s sake—­for pity’s sake!’ she said, struggling weakly.

’You know I love you.  You have known it all along.  Oh, my queen, how could I help loving you—­a rose in this wilderness?  Marcia, Marcia, love me!  By God, you shall!’ He kissed her again and again.

She ceased struggling.  ‘I do love you,’ she said.  ’I don’t care—­I don’t care; I love you!  Oh, how can I help myself?  I have been mad, but I love you!  I don’t care; I love you!’

XXI

It was February, and the Honourable Walter Ryder lingered at the homestead.  He had broached to Macdougal an intention of buying the whole of the next season’s wool-clip at Boobyalla, and carrying it back to England with him.  He thought it might be a profitable investment.  He had talked of going, but was pressed to stay; and meanwhile the change in Mrs. Macdougal was so marked that Lucy had often commented on it to Ryder.  A real romance had come into Marcia’s life—­a terrible one, she thought it—­and her poor little foolish dreams were swept away.  They had been innocent enough, those fanciful imaginings of hers, and had given her some joy.  This reality filled her with agonies of apprehension.  She was never free of terror, and found herself studying her husband’s impassive face, wondering what was behind those dull eyes, fearing the worst always.

Ryder had been most attentive to Lucy Woodrow during the last two or three weeks.  He accompanied her and the children on their daily ride, and he had taught Lucy to shoot with both fowling-piece and revolver.  She was a good pupil, and enjoyed the sport.  Her facility gave her a peculiar pleasure that was sweetened by his praise.  He still greeted her with studied deference, and in his transient moments of melancholy he spoke feelingly of a life’s sorrow.

‘There was a wound I thought would never heal,’ he told her one day; ’but the pain is gone—­the memory will go.  What cannot a good woman do with the life of a man?  But how few of us learn the potency of these sweet and tender hands until perhaps it is too late!’ He bent over her hand, and, turning away, left her abruptly.

Marcia noticed his marked attentions to Lucy, and complained tremblingly and with tears.

‘Nonsense!’ he said; ’there is nothing in it.  It is to divert suspicion.  I want the people about to think it is Miss Woodrow I love.  They must never know it is you, my queen!’ He kissed her cheek.  ’And you need have no fear, Marcia.  She is devoted to that man Done.’

But at length Ryder announced his intention of leaving.  He could put off his departure no longer than a week, he told Marcia, and a few minutes later conveyed the news to Lucy.  He was sitting in one of the windows when she came on to the veranda.