He had practically abandoned the idea of instituting a search for the river of gold which lay hidden in the distant north. The journey was a difficult one, and failure probably lay at the end. Then it would be almost impossible to find companions in whom he could trust—to venture alone would be madness. Besides, once in that district, there lay the danger of crossing some Indian warrior, who would strive to avenge Menotah's lost honour.
So far, the attraction which had bound him down to the western land was his real affection for his dark Canadian wife. He had been duly married to Marie by the rites of her religion, and for the time—as with Menotah—he was quite satisfied with his heart choice. But Sinclair had spoken truly to the Indian girl when he said, 'Lamont can't love; he hasn't got the heart.' So he had recently made the inevitable discovery that her presence had ceased to bring him pleasure; in short, that he was growing tired of her, as he became weary of anything which had a tendency towards daily repetition. This fact Marie, with woman's quick discernment, perceived, and—not possessing Menotah's tender devotion—resented, as she had indeed a right to do. Slight quarrels had arisen, like first mutterings of the yet distant storm, which could not fail to widen the breach which had been already formed by his growing indifference. On more than a single occasion actual bitterness had shown itself, and though such scenes more usually ended with kiss and fresh protestation of love, memory survived, converting the lip promise into a mechanical action which had no consent of the heart.
So Lamont was only now waiting for a favourable opportunity to steal away from the country, and join the forces of some insurrection in any other part of the world. His wife would be left behind as a matter of course. There were women to be found everywhere. Doubtless he could discover many as beautiful in the new land of his choice. Had Sinclair set the wheels of the law revolving but a month later, he might have found himself too late.
On that particular day they had quarrelled—the heat had made him irritable—but as evening approached and an indefinite feeling of fear tormented the mind, he had made such humble overtures towards reconciliation that Marie was astonished at the change. As she was sincerely fond of her husband, when it so happened that his moods agreed with hers, she was perfectly willing to meet his advances half way. Consequently it appeared that the threatened storm had been averted. Then the lamp was lighted in the little sitting-room overlooking the dark prairie, the window was left open on account of the heat, while they listened to the first smothered exclamation of the distant thunder.
Then Lamont began to experience that dim presentiment of approaching evil, which is such a real and such a terrible truth. He became suddenly so entirely lonely, and in so fearful a mood, that he was compelled to turn to his weak wife for protection as well as sympathy. It was impossible to remain any time in one position, while thought became intolerable.
'How irritable you are!' she said, when he began to pace up and down the room.
'The place is full of mosquitoes. It is the lamp light. Shall I shut the window?'
'If you like,' she replied. 'They don't trouble me, though.'
He did not go to the window, but sank into a chair. 'Marie!' he called suddenly.
She looked up in some wonder, when he called again. Then she crossed to his side. He threw his arm round her and drew her on his knee, to whisper in her ear, 'You love me, chérie, don't you?'