‘That is as it may be,’ said the soldier; and as he spoke their eyes met. His face wore a look of unalterable decision, yet so fraught was it with misery, even despair, that she instinctively felt that Fate had dealt her a remorseless stroke. ‘I have heard this day,’ he continued, ‘what has altered the chief purpose of my life—has killed my every hope. I return to India by the next ship.’
‘You have heard terribly bad news,’ she answered very softly. ‘I see it in your face. I need not tell you how we shall all sympathise with you; how grieved we shall be at your departure.’
Here the womanly instinct of the consoler proved stronger than that of the much-vaunted ruler of courts and camps, inasmuch as Beatrice lost sight of her personal feelings in bethinking herself how she could aid the strong man, whose features bore evidence of the agony which racked every nerve and fibre.
‘I feel deeply grateful for your sympathy. I knew you would bestow it. No living man needs it more. This morning I rode out fuller of pleasant anticipation than I can recall, prepared to take a step which I hoped would result in my life’s happiness. I had arranged for an extension of leave, after which I intended to sell out and live in this neighbourhood, which for many reasons—for every reason—I have found so delightful.’
‘And your plans are altered?’
This query was made in tones studiously free from all trace of interest or disapproval, although the beating heart and throbbing brain of the girl almost prevented utterance.
‘I have this day—this day only—you will do me the justice hereafter to believe—heard a statement, unhappily too true, which clears up the mystery which has rested upon me from my birth. That cloud has been removed. But behind it lies a foul blot, a dark shadow of dishonour, which I deemed could never have rested on the name of Walter Glendinning.’
‘Dishonour!’ echoed Beatrice. ‘Impossible! How can that be?’
‘It is as I say—deep and ineradicable,’ groaned out the unhappy man. ‘You will hear more from your brother. All is known to him and your friends of Benmohr. Enough that I have no personal responsibility. But it is a burden that I must carry till the day of a soldier’s death. You will believe me when I say that my honour demands that I quit Australia—to me so dear, yet so fatal. The years that may remain to me belong to my country.’
‘I feel,’ said the girl, with kindling eye and a pride of bearing which equalled his own, ‘that you are doing what your high sense of honour, of duty, demands. I can but counsel you to take them, for guide and inspiration. I know not the doom which has fallen on you, but I can bid you God-speed, and pray for you evermore.’