She stood leaning a little towards him, surrender in every line of her slender body, and her face was like a white flame—transfigured, radiant with some secret, mystic glory of love's imparting.
With an inarticulate cry he opened wide his arms and she went to him—swiftly, unerringly, like a homing bird—and, as he folded her close against his breast and laid his lips to hers, all the hunger and the longing of the empty past was in his kiss. For the moment, pain and bitterness and regret were swept away in that ecstasy of reunion.
Presently, with a little sigh of spent rapture, she leaned away from him.
“To think we've wasted a whole year,” she said regretfully. “Garth, I wish I had trusted you better!” There was a sweet humility of repentance in her tones.
“I don't see why you should trust me now,” he rejoined quietly. “The facts remain as before.”
“Only that the verdict of the court-martial was wrong,” she said swiftly. “There was some horrible mistake. I am sure of it—I know it! Garth!”—after a moment's pause—“are you going to tell me everything? I have the right to know—haven't I?—now that I'm going to be your wife.”
She felt the clasp of his arms relax, and, looking up quickly, she saw his face suddenly revert to its old lines of weariness. Slowly, reluctantly, he drew away from her.
“Garth!” There was a shrilling note of apprehension in her voice. “Garth! What is it? Why do you look like that?”
It was a full minute before he answered. When he did, he spoke heavily, as one who knows that his next words will dash all the joy out of life.
“Because,” he said quietly, “I can no more tell you anything now than I could before. I can't clear myself, Sara!”