'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 G.o.d, 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 b.o.o.byalla, 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 impa.s.sive 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.

'Have they told you I am leaving?' he asked abruptly.

'Leaving!' She was about to take a book from the small table, but did not do so. She turned from him, and stood with face averted, plucking at the vine tendrils. 'At once?' she asked.

'Almost. I fear I have outstayed my welcome.'

'That is hardly fair.'

'True, you have been very, very kind. I can never forget your goodness.'

'You owe me no grat.i.tude. After all, I am only governess here.'

'I owe you more than anyone else--I owe you the happiness b.o.o.byalla could never have given me without you.'

'You have not told me when you leave.'

'In a week.'

'A week! Oh, that is quite a long time!' Her voice had become stronger, and she pa.s.sed down the steps and along the garden walk to the children without having turned her face to him. It seemed that she could not trust herself.

He watched her closely, pressing his lower lip between finger and thumb, and a mirthless smile curled the corners of his mouth.

To Marcia's great surprise, her husband insisted on her arranging another party in honour of their guest, and to give their neighbours an opportunity of bidding him good-bye. To be sure, nothing like the Christmas gathering could be attempted, but the Cargills and two or three other families living within twenty miles were to be invited, and Yarra and Bob Hooke were despatched with the invitations. Hooke had been a shepherd at the five-mile hut till within three days, when a new hand Mack had employed was sent to take his place, and now Bob was acting rouse-about. Ryder had heard of this new hand as a man of atrocious ugliness--in fact, the man had been sent away, Marcia said, because the children were frightened half out of their wits at the sight of him.

Lucy received a letter from Jim Done on the afternoon of the day on which Ryder announced his impending departure. The letter was not a long one, and it lacked the cheerfulness that had characterized Jim's previous letters to Lucy. It told of Burton's death, of his own injuries and his long sickness, and of Ryder's gallant conduct. He was now almost recovered, he said, and by the time she received his letter would be back at Jim Crow with the Peetrees, who had returned and pegged out claims on Blanket Flat, having failed to do anything for themselves at Simpson's Ranges. Jim admitted that his mate's death had been a heavy blow. 'I had not realized how strong our friendship was,' he wrote. 'He was the best man I have known, and I do not think it probable I shall ever make such another friend.' Done concluded with a fervent wish that he might see her soon. There was the melancholy and the weakness of an invalid in the letter, and it disturbed Lucy greatly. She recalled, with a poignant sense of remorse, how little he had been in her mind during the past two months while he lay struggling for life. She felt that she had done him a wrong, and, scarcely understanding herself, gave way to a flood of tears over the wavering lines, every word of which bore evidence of the enfeebled hand of the convalescent.

Later she told Ryder of the letter, and of Done's return to Jim Crow.

'And you did not tell me of his injuries,' she said reproachfully.

'I could not find it in my heart to spoil your Christmas,' he said. 'He was getting on famously when I left Ballarat, and he has a magnificent const.i.tution. I knew he was safe, but felt that you would be certain to worry. You see, it is best.'

'I cannot think so. You were silent because you feared to speak of your own splendid bravery.'

'Believe me, no. It was nothing to pick up a wounded man and carry him to safety. I was silent to spare you.'

'I am grateful for your kind intentions, and more than grateful for what you have done for him. To Mr. Done I owe my life, and I feel that a service done to him is something for which I, too, am much beholden.'

'And for a life that is precious to you I would--' He ceased suddenly, but was careful that she should understand him well.

'A life that was precious to her!' The phrase seemed to have an extraordinary significance. Were the words a test? Her heart beat quickly; for a moment she looked into his eyes. It was as if his whole soul burned in them. Her face paled, a faint cry broke on her lips, and she moved back with faltering feet. He dropped his extended hands with a hopeless gesture, and turned from her. A footstep was heard in the pa.s.sage.

The party was fixed for the third evening prior to the date of Ryder's departure, and it was a great success. All the resources of a well-appointed station were brought into play for the gratification of the guests. The night was warm; the company were gathered in the big drawing the French window of which opened on to the wide veranda. Lucy was at the piano, providing an accompaniment, and the Sydneyside girl was singing an ardent love song. Yarra paused before Ryder with a tray, on which was a cool drink. In the act of lifting the gla.s.s the latter noticed that a uniformed trooper had suddenly appeared in the doorway. A turn of the eye satisfied him that there was another at the French window. He gave no sign of emotion, but leaned forward and spoke in a low voice to Yarra.

'You remember, Yarra, what I have told you. Trooper fellow come now, maybe.' He added a few words in the aboriginal tongue. 'Go quick!' he said.

There was a wait of some minutes, during which Ryder sat sipping at his drink, apparently entirely unconscious of anything but the singing. But presently he knew that he was the third point of a triangle, from the other points of which two regulation revolvers covered him. He satisfied himself with a movement of his elbow that his own revolver was in its place under his vest.

'Wat Ryder, alias Solo, I arrest you in the name of the Queen!' The trooper from the door had advanced into the room. 'You are my prisoner.

Stir a finger, and I'll shoot you where you sit.'

Ryder had shown no disposition to stir; he was still sipping at the gla.s.s, the coolest man in the room. The other guests looked unspeakably stupid in their open-mouthed amazement. Ryder saw that another trooper had taken the sergeant's place at the door, and that the man at the French window was now on the inside.

The first trooper had advanced to within a few feet of Ryder before it seemed to occur to the latter that he was the person addressed.

'Do you mean me, my man?' he said.

'I do; and I may tell you hanky-panky won't be healthy for you. We've got you cornered.'

Ryder arose quite unruffled, and set down his gla.s.s. Looking round upon the guests, he smiled and said:

'This is another of the possibilities of social life in Victoria. Will you tell me who I am supposed to be, and what I am supposed to do?'

'You are supposed to take these on for one thing,' said the trooper, swinging a pair of handcuffs in his left hand.

'Oh, certainly, if it's in the game.' Ryder offered his wrists.

'Behind you, please.'

'To be sure.' With his clenched fists behind him, Ryder submitted to the handcuffs, and then, as he stood manacled, his eye fell upon Donald Macdougal. The squatter was almost at his elbow, leaning against a small table, rolling his tongue under his teeth. The eyes of the two men met, and under the bushy brows of Monkey Mack there was a reddish gleam in which the Honourable Walter Ryder read a baboon-like malignancy, and in a moment the latter realized that in all his plans and precautions he had never made due allowance for the cunning and depth of this extraordinary man; but his face expressed nothing.

'Ah--h!' The sergeant gave a sigh of relief as he dropped his pistol hand. 'That's better.'

'Now,' said Ryder coldly, 'will you tell me if this is a new parlour game, or are these actual troopers who are a little more idiotic than the average?'

Ryder addressed Cargill. He was standing with his back to the piano; the gaping guests formed a semicircle in front of him. Marcia, sitting on a couch, motionless, with cheeks of deadly whiteness, uttered no sound, and her eyes looked like patches of darkness in her icy face. Lucy, standing at the piano, never took her eyes from Ryder. She could see what the others could not see--the long, thin hands of the prisoner slowly but easily working themselves out of the grip of the handcuffs.

'Call it a parlour game if you like, Mr. Solo, but I'm the winner, and I'll trouble you to come with me.'

'Wait a moment. Macdougal, this farce has gone far enough. As your guest, I demand an explanation.'