‘You have spoken my inmost thoughts. God help us that it should be so. But I were disloyal to every thought and aspiration of my nature if I stooped to link the life of another, as God is my witness and judge, to my tarnished name. We must part—never, perhaps, to meet on earth—but, Beatrice, dearest and only loved—may I not call you so?—I who now look upon your face, and hear your voice for the last time—you will think in your happy home of one who tore the heart from his bosom, which a dark fate forbade him to offer you. When you hear that Walter Glendinning died a soldier’s death, give a tear to his memory—to his fate who scorned death, but could not endure dishonour.’
Neither spoke for some moments. The girl’s tears flowed fast as she gazed before her, while both rode steadily onward. The man’s form was bowed, and his set features wore the livid aspect of him who has received a death-wound but strives to hide the inward agony. Slowly, mechanically, they rode side by side along the homeward track, in the rear of the others until the entrance gate was reached. Then, as if by mutual impulse, they turned towards each other, and their eyes met in one long sorrowful glance. Such light has shone in the eyes of those who parted ere now, sanctified by a martyr’s hope—a martyr’s death.
‘We shall meet,’ she said, ‘no more on earth; but oh, if you value my love, cherish the thought of a higher life—of a better world, where no false human pride, no barrier of man’s cruelty or injustice may sever us. I hold the trust which my heart, if not my lips, confessed. Till then, farewell, and may a merciful God keep our lives unstained until the day of His coming.’
She drew the glove from her hand hurriedly. It fell at his horse’s feet. He dismounted hastily, and placed it in his bosom, and raising her ice-cold hand to his lips, pressed it with fervour. Then accompanying her to the hall door, he committed her to the charge of Wilfred, who, with his mother and sister, stood on the verandah, took a hurried leave of the family, regretting that he was compelled, by sudden summons, to rejoin his regiment, and with his friends, who with ready tact made excuse for returning, took the familiar track to Benmohr.
Few words were spoken on the homeward road, which was traversed at a pace that tried the mettle of the descendants of Camerton. That night the friends sat late, talking earnestly. It was long after midnight before they separated. On the following day Major Glendinning and his father met at a spot half-way between The Chase and Benmohr, the interview being arranged by Hamilton, who rode over and persuaded the old man to accompany him. What passed between them was never known, but ere that night was ended the Major was far on his way to Sydney, which he reached in time to secure a passage in the good ship Governor Bourke, outward bound for China. In the course of the week Mr. Effingham received a letter in explanation of the circumstances, signed Owen Walter Glendinning, declaring his unworthiness to aspire to his daughter’s hand, as well as his inability to remain in the country after the mystery of his birth had been so unexpectedly revealed to him. He held himself pledged to act in the matter after the expiration of a year in accordance with what Mr. Effingham, acting as the guardian of his daughter’s happiness, might consider in the light of an honourable obligation. A bank draft drawn in favour of Thomas Stewart Glendinning was enclosed, with an intimation that an annual payment would be forwarded for his use henceforth during the writer’s life.
The first cloud which the Effinghams had descried since their arrival in Australia had appeared in the undimmed horizon. The breath of evil, which knows no bound nor space beneath the sun, had rested on them. Habitually taking deeper interest in the subjective issues of life than in its material transaction, they were proportionately depressed. All that maternal love and the most tender sisterly affection could give was lavished upon the sufferer. Her well-disciplined mind, strengthened by culture and purified by religion, gradually acquired equilibrium. But it was long ere the tranquil features of Beatrice Effingham recovered their wonted expression; and a close observer could have detected the trace of an inward woe in the depths of her erstwhile clear, untroubled eyes.
In his answer to the letter which he had received, Mr. Effingham ‘fully agreed with the course which his friend had taken, and the determination which he had expressed. Looking at the situation, which he deplored with his whole heart, he was unable to see any other mode of action open to him as a man of honour. Deeply prejudicial as had been the issue to the happiness of his beloved daughter, he could not ask him (Major Glendinning) to swerve by one hair’s-breadth from the path which he had laid down for himself. His wishes would be attended to with respect to the bank draft forwarded for the use of the person named, but he would suggest that Mr. Sternworth should be chosen as the recipient of future remittances. He would, in conclusion, wish him the fullest measure of success and distinction which his profession offered, with, if not happiness, the inward satisfaction known to those who marched ever in the vanguard of honourable duty. In this wish he was warmly seconded by every member of the family.’
Old Tom, after notice of his intention to leave the employment, presented himself before his master, dressed and accoutred as for a journey, leading Boney and followed by the uncompromising Crab. His effects were fastened in a roll in front of his saddle, his coiled stockwhip was pendent from the side-buckle. All things, even to the fixed look upon the weather-beaten features, betokened a settled resolution.
‘I’m going to lave the ould place, Captain,’ he said; ‘and it’s sorry I am this day to quit the family and the lake and the hounds, where I laid it out to lave the ould bones of me. I’m wishin’ the divil betther divarshion than to bother with the family saycrets of the likes o’ me. Sure he has lashins of work in this counthry, without disturbin’ the last days of poor ould Tom Glendinning—and he sure of me, anyhow. My heart’s bruk, so it is.’