Chapter II
I
The journey Eastward was one bewildering revelation to Hector. The changes in the past ten years had been marvellous. It pleased him to think that without the Mounted Police they would have been impossible.
Staying nearly two days in Winnipeg—now a thriving town—he enjoyed a personal triumph. Word of his arrival brought hosts of people to see him and showers of invitations. Big Jim Hackett, one-time owner of the Hell's Gate saloon, now proprietor of one of the best hotels, insisted in quartering Hector and Hugh under his roof, though the place was already jammed. Andrew Ferguson, whose bakery had grown stupendously, fought with little Johnny Oakdale, now monarch of a bustling hardware store, for the pleasure of showing Hector round; and so on; and so on.
But what amused Hector was their anxiety to know just why he was going home and their unshakable conviction—in spite of all he could say—that his was a mission of love.
"Of course you're going home to get married, Mr. Adair!" pretty little Miss Sinclair—Mrs. Jim Hackett now—declared, a roguish look in her eyes. "Now, listen to me—don't deny it, because I know better. I can see it in your face. And is it any wonder? What else should a man go East for, I'd like to know? You men are all alike—lose your hearts to the first pretty girl who comes along to tell you about 'Home.' Who is she—one of those prying visitors, perhaps, or that moon-faced newspaper girl I saw you with when the train came in?—The hussy! But I don't blame her, Mr. Adair. You know, I once had quite a soft spot for you myself—and now! Such a fine, big, bronzed fellow, handsome as a dream, so young to hold the rank, that beautiful red coat—oh, don't blush! You know it's true, young man! Yes, you do! Would any of your men dare to talk to you like this? I guess not, eh? Never mind. Don't deny you're bringing a bride back with you, because you surely will. She's a lucky girl, whoever she is!"
"I tell you, you're talking nonsense," Hector laughed. "What should I get married for?"
"I like that! 'Nonsense!' 'What should I get married for?'! It isn't nonsense. It's quite time you were thinking of it."
When the sojourn was over and Hector was once more in the comparative solitude of the train, he began to ponder over this attitude. It was a strange thing that all his friends should naturally assume that he was going home to get married and, finding themselves in error, should insist that it was time he began to think of it. Obviously, they considered it inevitable that he should now contemplate entering into the holy state. As he had never given it a moment's thought till now, it was equally obvious that he must be unlike the general run of men of his age, by whom his friends, of course, judged him. Strange that he had never realized it before!
Struggling against this knowledge—the knowledge of his peculiar individuality—he next tried to tell himself that most men of his age were unattached or, at any rate, single. But his own experience rebelled against the lie. He saw that most men had at least been in love—honestly, desperately in love—before they reached his years; and he had never been in love; no, not once. Perhaps, though, this was easily explained. He had left Eastern Canada while still far too young to feel a great passion; since that time he had been so busy with his work that he had not had time to think of anything else. Besides, he had never found in the North-West a woman of such radiant beauty and soul as to meet with his ideal, which he knew was extraordinarily high. Many had pitched themselves at his head; none had satisfied him. In the East, where women were so much more numerous, now that he was to see the women of the East with a man's eyes, he might come across some-one who could light the divine spark. On the other hand, he wondered if he was one in whose life love had no place. There were people, after all, who had gone through life in that loneliness. Or perhaps he was one of those to whom Destiny allots one and only one grand passion, which was still to come.
In the end he laughed, calling himself a sentimental ass. Time enough to think of love when it came, and when love came, of marriage.
At Alma John met them and Mrs. Adair. And Hector gathered her into his arms, murmuring rapturously:
"Mother, I'm so glad to be home!"
II
The week following Hector's homecoming was a strange, swift medley of joy and sorrow, gaiety and festival and pain, of renewing acquaintances, paying visits, exchanging reminiscences. Hector passed a sad half-hour in the churchyard where so many of those he loved best—his father, Maintop, Long Dick, Nora and the gallant Sergeant Pierce—were sleeping. He made a special journey, also, to have a look at Silvercrest; but at the last moment could not bear to see the old place in a stranger's hands, and came away.
At the end of the week he remembered Arcady and his promise to Perkins. As it happened, no-one could spare the time to go with him. So he went alone, bearing as passport a letter of introduction to a Mr. Tweedy, friend of Allen's and owner of half the village.
Tweedy was all that could be desired. He insisted on carrying Hector home with him for supper and later on demanded that he should stay with them for the duration of his visit, whatever that might be.
After supper Hector broached his errand, intending to lead up to the main point in a roundabout way and to conceal such facts as he deemed advisable. But Mrs. Tweedy—a bright little woman with glasses and a tireless but mercifully charitable tongue—in her first reply, made further questioning almost unnecessary and settled poor Perkins' perplexities for ever.
"Mrs. John Perkins?—Mrs. John Perkins?—Let me see, now. A widow, eh? There was a Mrs. Perkins here—very old—son ran away—only child—the rascal!—you say that's the one? Oh, yes, I know whom you mean. Oh, she's dead!"
The news gave Hector an unpleasant shock and his heart went out to Perkins. A little later, he decided to confide everything to the sympathetic couple. Tweedy shook his head a great many times, Mrs. Tweedy wiped her glasses and murmured "Poor thing! Poor boy! Oh, dear! Well, well!" and both offered to do everything possible to assist Hector if he wished to give the affair any more attention.
"Then," said Hector, "You'll take me over to the Post Office and the old lady's grave. I want to make some enquiries about Perkins' letters and I'd like to be able to tell him——"
In the morning, Hector learned that Perkins' letters had been duly delivered to the old lady up to the time of her death and that those received since had been sent to the dead letter office. Perkins had received nothing from the dead letter office. But then, he moved round so much that this was not surprising. Tweedy then took his guest over to the tumbledown shack which Mrs. Perkins had occupied. The afternoon found him too busy to drive to the cemetery. Hector obtained full directions as to the route and made the journey on foot, took a mental photograph of the grave for Perkins, and turned homeward.
He forgot all about Perkins a few minutes later, in the beauty of the autumn evening. The sun, a paling disc, was dropping slowly down towards its sanctuary behind the far blue hills. Arcady, loveliest of all havens in Ontario, lay below him, in a wide valley brimful of golden sunlight, glorious with the mingling greys and browns and scarlets of woods and fields and orchards. The road on which he stood ran winding into the distant town, resting like a sleeping child in the middle of it all. Harvesters still lingered in the grain. The orchards glowed with crimson apples. From the chimneys of Arcady and the summer cottages which fringed the sparkling, rippling lake beyond, thin threads of blue-grey smoke rose straight upwards through the bracing, sweetly scented air and on the lake a single sail gleamed like a flake of snow. Somewhere, near at hand, a bird called, mournfully, persistently, while a church bell tolled with mellow voice a long way off. The picture was all that Home and Peace and Canada could mean to Hector and for a little while it held him, fresh as he was from raw, unsettled wildernesses and scenes of fierce toil and sordid crime, in a rapturous enchantment.
He felt, then, as if be was poised upon the edge of Paradise, as if marvels that he could not even guess were about to be made known to him.
In this strange mood, he walked steadily down into the valley and along a lane which would take him to Tweedy's by a short cut. Tall hedges bright with changing leaves enclosed this lane and it was fringed by autumn flowers and overhung by loaded boughs. A wind brought to him the rich smell of hay and apples and stirred the rustling leaves which strewed the ruts before him. A small bird piped drowsily.
Then, suddenly, as he pushed aside a screen of branches, he knew that this visit to Arcady was not to be fruitless after all, that there was a purpose behind it; and learnt, suddenly, why Destiny had sent him there.
For, suddenly, he saw her.
III
His coming took her by complete surprise and, for a time which might be measured in seconds, she remained unconscious of his presence. She was sitting on a stile which led into an orchard on the left side of the lane, her face and figure steeped in the golden sunlight and boldly framed by sprays of scarlet leaves against a background of clear sky. Her head was partly turned away but Hector could see that she was unusually pretty. The soft freshness of girlhood blended in her face with the character of womanhood and her hair—he had never seen anything like her hair, a kind of ruddy gold, almost copper, shot with sunbeams which played in it as if they were alive. She wore a dress that was soft and white and billowy and from her arm hung a small straw hat on two blue ribbons.
So much he saw in the first swift moment. And then he perceived that she was crying, not noisily or violently, but quietly, with slowly welling tears. He wondered why. Presently he noticed that she was holding out her skirt in front and staring at it with a world of misery in her eyes. There was a jagged rent in the skirt. A tiny bit of stuff fluttering on a nail in the stile told him everything. And now she found relief from her vexation in the customary feminine manner.
Hector, sensing nothing more than its rarer beauty, was for a moment lost in admiring contemplation of the perfect picture. The moment passing, he wavered between pity and amusement. From this mood he slowly fluttered back to earth, to a realization that he was staring with unforgivable rudeness, that he was intruding on a lady's privacy and that courtesy demanded he should make his presence known without further delay. But still he could not bear to speak and break the spell. And, while he hesitated, she glanced up with a startled expression and met his eyes with hers.
Had he been a Chinese mandarin in full regalia she could not have looked more astonished or alarmed.
"What—what—who are you?" she asked him.
And Hector, stepping back in some confusion, like a boy caught stealing jam, stammered:
"Excuse me—er—I beg your pardon!"
By this time she had jumped hastily to her feet, dropping the jagged tear into concealment and swiftly dabbing her eyes with the tiniest of handkerchiefs. Annoyance crept into her face. Then came an awkward pause and her annoyance seemed to conflict with a sudden fit of shyness. They faced each other in silence.
"How—how long had you been there?" she enquired at last.
Hector, self-possession rapidly returning, came out from among the screening leaves into which he had temporarily recoiled.
"Not long," he said. "Only a second or two, in fact. I had no idea you were there, of course; and then—when I saw you—I was rather caught unawares and I hated to disturb you because——"
He paused, the ghost of a laugh in his eyes. 'Well, because what?' was what he wanted her to say. But she continued to look at him in silence and he finished the sentence himself:
"Because you looked so beautiful."
She flushed a little. He wondered if she would reprove him. Instead, she bit her lip and a hint of laughter played about the corner of her mouth, reflecting back his whim.
"I know I ought to have coughed or something. I most certainly should have coughed. I really am very sorry."
The apology was genuine. She accepted it and said so, not in so many words, but in continuing the parley.
"I tore my dress," she explained ruefully, as if in self-defence. "I wanted to go home by a short cut. So I thought I'd try this lane. The stile here makes it a shorter cut than ever. I—I wanted to get over it ... and couldn't. And my dress caught on that nail; and it was a new one, too!"
She struggled with a fresh outbreak of grief and an obvious confusion which seemed to say: 'I know that ladies don't scramble over stiles. But the truth is the truth and must be told. What do you think of me?'
Hector looked at her gravely.
"That really is too bad," he sympathized. "It's a fine dress; and a very awkward stile."
She was grateful.
"Yes, isn't it—or aren't they—is that what I mean? I shall have to walk back by the long way now."
With that, she prepared to go. The dialogue was obviously over and Hector had received his dismissal.
But he could not let the matter end so soon and in this manner!
"Excuse me," he said, gently extending a detaining hand, "excuse me for intruding further and for contradicting, but—you don't really have to, you know!"
She looked at him quickly—apparently decided to ignore this assertion—moved on a step or two—thought better of it—and, halting, asked him calmly:
"How is that?"
Again the bantering look crept in Hector's eyes.
"Well, if I may suggest it, I can help you across."
He nodded towards the stile.
She looked puzzled, followed his glance, and smiled amusedly.
"I don't quite understand," she told him.
Hector smiled back.
"I don't believe you're very heavy. I'm sure—" greatly daring, he ventured the plunge, "I could easily lift you over."
She raised her eyebrows gravely. Hector felt that he had damned himself.
"Lift me over?" she queried.
He bowed his head.
"But—I—I don't even know you," she laughed delightfully. "You're a complete stranger."
Hector echoed her laugh. Then, becoming serious again, "I can soon put that right. Name, Adair, Hector. Rank, Sergeant-Major. Regiment, the North-West——"
"Oh, I know that," she exclaimed. "North-West Mounted Police, aren't you?" There was a good deal of pride in her voice, as of one who parades his knowledge. "Why, of course—you're staying with the Tweedys—down——"
She stopped, ashamed of her enthusiasm.
"You'll think I know too much," she said. "But news travels very quickly in a quiet little village like this. And anything is news. Oh, I didn't mean——"
Hector smiled.
"I know," he said. "I understand. So I needn't really go on with my explanations now. You have my name and credentials. In turn——"
"Yes?"
"To complete the introduction, you must of course tell me yours."
"Mine? Oh, I couldn't do that!"
"Come along," Hector urged. He was thoroughly enjoying this episode. "That's only fair. Why not?"
"But——" she seemed doubtful. "This—this is all so very informal."
"Still," said Hector, "even so—you can at least tell me your name and where you live. You might as well, you know, because I'll find out anyway. You forget that we of the Police can find out anything—yes, anything. And we generally have our way."
Looking at him, she knew that he spoke the truth, But she fenced skilfully.
"Then I'll leave you to find out," she smiled.
"Please tell me."
She shook her head. His earnest gaze discomfited her.
"Come along. Considering that I'm going to render you a service, it's the least you can do."
"Service?" she enquired. Then, remembering, "Oh, but I really don't think it should be done."
"Nonsense," he laughed. "I'll do it so quickly—so nicely—that you won't even know it till it's all over."
She shook her head again and began to move off.
"Don't go. Think of the short cut!" he urged.
"It's not right," she said.
He wondered if she really meant it or was only laughing at him.
"Come on!" he said firmly, eyes discreetly challenging.
Suddenly she tossed her head, with a little laugh.
"Come on, then!"
Fatal things, stiles! Instantly he had swung her lightly off her feet. His face was so close to hers that he could count the lashes of her eyes and smell the soft perfume of her wonderful hair. For some reason unknown, he felt intoxicatingly dizzy. Deadly things, stiles!
He had her at an advantage. But she had trusted him and he was a gentleman. Climbing easily over the stile, he set her down.
Breathless and laughing, she drew back a stray strand of hair with her small white fingers. He waited.
"Thank you," she said quietly and extended her hand. Surely this was not the end?
Hector took the hand.
"Won't you tell me who you are now?" he asked.
She laughed, her eyes dancing.
"Please!" he said. "Remember, I can and will find out in any case, if I wish!"
His square jaw backed his words.
Suddenly she seemed to relent.
"You remind me of Gareth, the Knight of the Round Table," she declared solemnly. By this time she had gently withdrawn her hand. "Do you remember? He rescued a damsel in distress—" her eyes lighted up mischievously, "and——"
"Yes?" he encouraged.
"She was very unkind to him. Her name was Lynette."
"Well?"
"You may call me Lynette."
Then she turned swiftly and left him. He hoped she would look back. But she did not.
IV
Moving rapidly through the orchard, the girl passed on to a square white house, and slipped upstairs to her room. Her heart was beating furiously, her eyes were bright and her head bewilderingly full of Indians, teepees, pistols, horses and Mounted Policemen, Mounted Policemen everywhere.... Impulsively she dropped to her knees at the window, head on arms, and let the evening breeze ruffle her gleaming hair. Her eyes were full of dreams....
That night, when she had gone to bed, the visions of the afternoon came back to her and, getting up again, she resumed her place at the window. The darkness was more soothing than the sunset and the light breeze cooler than at dusk. For what seemed hours she knelt there, trying to put aside the pictures in her mind, yet glad they would not leave her. Beneath them all, something she had once read ran persistently through her head, a bit of poetry, going something like this:
When may Love come to me?
In the cold grey hush of the dawn,
In the fierce brilliance of noonday,
In the soft warm blue of twilight
Or the depth of night.
Perhaps in the freshness of Spring,
Perhaps in the fulness of Summer,
Or the blazing glories of Autumn
Or the white silence of Winter,
Then Love may come to you!
How may Love come to me?
Like a monk, colourless, solemn,
Or perhaps a little boy, weeping,
Or a sinner, pleading repentance,
Or a poet, listlessly dreaming,
Or a soldier, radiant, glowing,
Passionate, terrible, merciless,
Girdled with lightning and thunder.
Hailed with a pealing of trumpets,
Thus may Love come to you!
So the words ran. From them, boldly, perplexingly, continuously, these few phrases stood out before her:
"In the soft warm blue of twilight ... or the blazing glories of Autumn ... a soldier, radiant, glowing.... Then Love may come to you.... Thus may Love come to you!"
"In the soft warm blue of twilight ... or the blazing glories of Autumn ... a soldier, radiant, glowing...."
The words would not leave her. And, every time she saw them, they conjured up before her eyes—again, she could not tell why—a picture of the man she had met that afternoon.
Hector finished his walk that night in a pleasant reverie, thankful that the gods had rewarded his charitable visit so swiftly and so kindly. After dinner, careful to conceal the depth of his interest, he described the girl to Mrs. Tweedy.
"Sort of red-headed girl, eh?" said the good lady. "Well, not exactly red-headed—more goldish, copperish, bronzish! With beautiful features—almost classical, I think—but not so inhuman—taller than most girls—and such a voice! Of course I know her! That's Frances Edginton—Major Edginton's daughter—an only child. She has the sweetest little mother—oh, such a sweet woman! He's a bit of a tyrant, though—regular martinet—stuck up, I think—well off, retired Army, and very strict in his ideas. No, they don't live here. Where do the Edgintons live, Arthur? Don't know? Neither do I. I don't believe anyone does. They're only here for the summer. In fact, this is the first summer they've been in Arcady. Yes, that's his daughter—Frances Edginton. Lovely, I think—yes, that's the word! Lovely!"
"I'll have to meet her again," thought Hector, "just to show I've found out. Lynette—eh?—Frances—not much alike—both awfully pretty——"
Turning in that night, he was astonished to find that he could not put Frances out of his mind. Her face remained before him, sometimes with that bantering little smile upon it, sometimes sweetly serious and framed, always, with that radiant halo of red-gold hair. Now he was watching her sitting on the stile in tearful contemplation of her torn new dress. Now he was holding her hand again, feeling the gentle pressure of her fingers when she thanked him. Now he was listening to her laugh, heir merry, bubbling little laugh, now to her voice, that was one moment level, smooth, passionless, the next intense and earnest and always soft and melodious as running water, caressing as a summer breeze. Really, her voice—it was something quite extraordinary. He quite agreed with Mrs. Tweedy there!
Voice, laugh, face, eyes, hair—one after another, round and round, they all came back throughout the night. It was a pleasure simply to think about them. Was he growing sentimental, he wondered? What was the matter with him, anyhow?
In the morning, he knew—or thought he knew.
"I must be in love—at last."
He saw, now, that the prophecies of his friends in Winnipeg had been heralds of this moment, sent by Destiny.
He was in love—at last!
V
Few men reach mature years without experiencing a sincere 'affair.' Those that do are generally leaders of monastic lives remote from cities or settlements where women congregate—are soldiers, sailors, missionaries, pioneers. But when love comes at last to men of that stamp, especially when their segregation has preserved their boyhood ideals regarding women, especially when stern discipline of soul and body and close contact with Nature—another name for God—has prepared them for its coming—then they love as men love at their noblest, deepest and best, bringing with them the fiery ardour of strength developed and the reverent rapture of youth.
Hector was 'of that stamp.'
Having discovered that he loved Frances, he shaped his campaign, as usual, with a sure, determined hand. The first thing, of course, was to see her again, as soon and as often as possible. He had originally intended to leave Arcady by the earliest train. Therefore as a preliminary, he sent, in the morning, the following wire to John:
'Unavoidably and indefinitely detained. Important business.'
"Well, it is important business!" he excused himself.
Next, he went to Mrs. Tweedy.
"Mrs. Tweedy, I like Arcady so well that I've decided to accept your invitation and stay on a while."
"There, now!" said Mrs. Tweedy. "Why, I'm just delighted! And we'll have such times!"
Mrs. Tweedy, true to her word, immediately launched him out like a debutante among the villagers and summer visitors, who asked him to all their picnics, dances, and parties. At the first of these affairs, he met Frances. Catching the amused recognition in her eyes, he forestalled Mrs. Tweedy's formal introduction:
"Oh, yes—Miss Edginton. I've already had the honour——"
Mrs. Tweedy melted away.
"You see, Lynette," he added, "I told you the Police always find out!"
"O, marvellous young knight!" she answered.
Thenceforward he constantly sought her company.
In due course he met the Major, who was all and more than all that Mrs. Tweedy had said. He reminded Hector, to a certain extent, of his own father. A middle-sized, very soldierly man, with keen eyes, snow-white hair and drooping white moustache, he conformed to a distinct type of which Colonel Adair has been a taller and finer edition. Toward Hector he adopted an attitude of distant politeness, which seemed to say at every turn, 'Thus far and no farther.' 'He knows I'm a gentleman,' Hector decided, 'and consequently feels that he must be at least courteous, though it hurts him terribly—because I'm an N.C.O.' But, knowing the Army officer of the Old School, he neither heeded nor resented Major Edginton.
Mrs. Edginton he fell in love with at once. She was small, dainty and faded, very sweet and gracious. From Mrs. Edginton Frances had stolen her pansy eyes, clean-cut features and extraordinary hair. Hector decided that Mrs. Edginton had long played second fiddle to the Major. But he also saw that Frances was all the world to her. 'If anything ever happens,' Hector thought, 'she'll find herself torn between her duty to her husband and her love for her daughter; though, everything considered, I think a man might count her an ally.'
On the whole, she reminded him of his mother, just as the Major recalled his father.
These observations were made at odd moments, when he was not busy in pursuit of Frances. In this pursuit, he threw his whole heart and soul towards the objective, forgot everything and everybody else and was thoroughly and completely happy.
Every hour with Frances brought forward some delightful discovery serving to bind him still more closely. Her beauty did not fade on closer acquaintance, as that of other women did, but became, if possible, more obvious than before and revealed some fresh and striking charm that dazzled him. The sun, striking through her hair from this angle or that, gave it a tone which hitherto he had not seen. Her eyes, in such a light, took on a purple mystery as yet unknown to them. And so on and so on, as the youth in him directed.
He found out other things, concerned, not with her appearance but with her personality and character. The sweetness which had first attracted him proved even deeper than he had imagined. She developed an unexpected serenity of strength. Her sense of humour, of which he had learned something at the stile, he discovered was a charming, eager, whimsical thing, quaint and illusive as a fairy, brilliant as a sunbeam, subtle as far-off laughter. He loved a woman with a sense of humour, such as that possessed by Frances. He loved a woman with insight and understanding. She had both. She possessed, in fact, everything necessary to create between them a powerful bond of sympathy. Her ideals were just as he would have them. Quite obviously, she was meant for him.
In the meantime, what practical knowledge of her had he acquired? From her own lips he acquired it, in short order. Her father was English, her mother a Canadian. They had met while the Major was in garrison at Halifax and had been married there. She looked on herself as a Canadian and Canada was her home but she really had no home at all, unless it was her father's in England, which she barely knew. The Major had retired long ago and the family had been wanderers ever since she could remember. She had lived and attended school in the States, in France and England until old enough to 'come out' and had made her debut in London. Today she knew 'Society'—as distinguished from 'society'—amazingly well, after only two seasons. Her stay in Arcady was in the nature of a rest cure. Her normal life lay in fashionable circles, among titles and flunkies and millionaires. In a short time they would be going back to that life but had not yet settled on their movements.
To Hector, this was discouraging. It meant that their paths, though Fate had brought them together for a time in Arcady, lay really far apart. Hers led through worlds of wealth and ease, inhabited by the fortunate few, his through poverty and toil, inhabited by suffering millions. Well, never mind. Here, in Arcady, they were on common ground, The future?—He dared not face the future, so he let it go.
So, day by day, beneath her influence, his love developed and grew, not like a sun leaping suddenly over the horizon or a flower opening slowly into radiance but like a strain of music that marches from a soft, plaintive opening through a spreading, quickening crescendo to a glorious, crashing climax which has in it immeasurable power and majesty, peace and tenderness and a hint of terrible storm. And eyes that understood saw her wakening and responding, like a placid lake stirred gradually, almost imperceptibly, to movement by gathering winds. Hector could not see it. He was a child in such matters.
Mrs. Tweedy saw it, though, was thrilled to ecstasy and did her level best to make a match between the two.
Day by day—and all that remained now, for Hector, was to make the plunge. Had he been anything but a child in such matters, he might have read his answer a thousand times in her eyes. As it was, he kept putting off the fateful day. But time was moving on. Within five days he must leave for the West. Of his total leave period of forty-two days, thirty were already gone. Seven days were required for the return trip West. Of the five days remaining, he owed his mother the majority. His scheme was to speak to Frances first, then to her father as soon afterwards as possible and then, whatever the outcome, to go home. If he was successful at this, the greatest moment of his life, he would make further plans later on. All arrangements, whether successful or not, he had to fit into this essential—his return to duty on time.
Seeing her at the Post Office one morning, he seized his opportunity.
"Meet me at the stile tonight—at any time that suits you," he whispered.
"You sound like a popular song," she whispered back.
She had never had a rendezvous with him before.
"Don't laugh," he pleaded. "Will you? Don't joke with me—now. Will you?"
She nodded, secretly overwhelmed.
"At nine o'clock," she told him.
VI
At half-past eight Hector left the house to walk to the stile.
The night was perfect—an ideal night in autumn—with all the mystery and magic that go with it. A harvest moon, like a great balloon of orange silk illuminated from within, rode low in the darkness, apparently tethered among ghostly trees in the heart of a valley beyond a sheaf-crowned ridge. A filmy veil, all shadowy blues and mauves and greys, invested day's familiar objects with a strange and supernatural beauty. The night air was soft and cool and murmurous with the music of innumerable insects. The wind sighed gently in the trees, with an eerie whisper, and brought with it a hundred subtle perfumes.
At nine o'clock he reached the stile.
She was there.
"Is that you, Hector?"
Her voice was startlingly distinct.
"Yes, Frances."
They began to talk—at first in broken, uneasy sentences—later settling down into their customary ease. After a time, he slowly swung to the personal. She knew that he was paving the way to the vital matter and she helped him cleverly.
Now, haltingly but indomitably, he began. He was very close to her but staring into the darkness before him. She could see his face in firm silhouette against the moonlight sky.
"All my life"—he was saying—"I'd been in a military atmosphere, with soldiers and sailors all round me. The thing was in my blood. You can't understand—well, perhaps, you can, because your father was a soldier, too. But you're a woman. Only men, I think, can feel the—I suppose I mean the fascination of it, though that isn't just the word I want. And even men can't understand it, unless they're born in it, too. It's a wonderful thing, reserved for Service families. Besides, I'd been encouraged. I was to have a Commission and be a soldier. That's what I was told. So, when I was a baby, even, I was dreaming of some day being an officer and—well, I admit it—a great man."
"Go on," she said; his quiet voice holding her.
"Well, my father's death seemed to smash all that. I was a youngster and it broke my heart. However, I plucked up courage at last—and began to look out for a chance. I was determined I was going to be a soldier, anyway, and if necessary I'd work my way up to a Commission. I hung on to my dreams."
"Poor little Hector!" she murmured.
His words conjured up a pathetic picture. She touched his hand sympathetically. He went on.
"One day my chance came. They were organizing the Mounted Police. Not exactly soldiers—but soldier-policemen. I joined—and set out to work my way up."
She was silent, enthralled. She knew that a strong man was paying her the greatest tribute in his power—was showing her the most secret places of his heart.
"It was hard work—hard, hard, hard. But I loved it—do still. I had luck, of course. Early this year, they made me Sergeant-Major of my division—after ten years. The next step is either Regimental Sergeant-Major or a Commission. I hope it's a Commission—I'm almost certain it will be. Probably next year. You know what it will mean to me."
She thought she knew—the goal of a lifetime and of innumerable trials and struggles achieved at last, by sheer will-power and stark, unaided effort.
"But that's not all. You know, I couldn't talk to everyone like this, Frances. It sounds—well, I don't know how it sounds. You can see what I mean. Never mind! I'm going to finish. Where was I? Oh, yes—that's not all. Remember, I said just now, I wanted to be not only an officer, but—but a great man! When I get my Commission, my first dream is reached. The other one remains.
"During those years, Frances"—his voice took on a more intense note—"I never—I never thought of—well, love. That is, in a personal way. Somehow, it never entered my head. I was busy—busy all the time. Women are few and far between out there. I suppose I'd have—well, fallen in love, like most people, if I'd met anyone that attracted me—or fitted in with my ideals. But I never did. I suppose I'm hard to please—thank God. I wanted," he was stumbling now, like a man on a rough road, in the dark. "Oh, you know—a woman—well," he laughed, "of course, that was beautiful—but a good woman—strong—and fine as true steel. Well, they're rare—or I'm blind. I began to think—when I thought of it at all—that they didn't exist. But they do!"
Her heart pounded. He had taken her hand in his, in a strong grasp.
"I've found one in particular."
For a moment he was silent.
"Now, with that girl—well, there's nothing I couldn't do—nothing! With her to work for, nothing in the world could hold me back! I want her, because—well, my dream of greatness might never come without her—it wouldn't be worth while even if it did—and the road would be—well, the longest, hardest road that ever man trod. I want that girl's love to help me. Together—but, God knows, I don't want to brag.
"I've found her—Frances—but I hardly dare to tell her. I'm only—well, I'm only an N.C.O., with a precarious future. My Commission is almost a certainty but even that won't add much to my pay, which will be a pittance to the end of time. Even after that, if I do ever amount to anything, it will still be a pittance. Today, in the eyes of the big world and of those this girl associates with, I'm nobody; and if I got to the very top, I'd still be nobody, to some of them. She has millionaires and famous men in bucketsful to choose from—and she's so wonderful that they're fighting to be chosen. So how could I hope she'd look at me? Out where I come from, of course, it's different, Frances. A man's a man not because of what he has but what he is. And that's right. It's not money that counts, in this world, really. It's the big things—the things—well, the things worth fighting for. I think I'm fighting for a big thing. And I—do you know, Frances, I think this girl will see things with my eyes? So I'm going to tell her that I love her and—leave the rest with her. Do you think I'm right?"
His heart—all his hopes, dreams, ideals, his simple, noble creed and code—were lying before her now, for her inspection. In that moment, she saw him a giant, remembered what he had said, 'With that girl to work for—nothing in the world could hold me back!' and felt herself dominated with his strength and courage.
"Frances," he repeated, quietly—close to her, now, and both her hands in his—"do you think I'm right?"
Her heart was hammering.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Do you know who the girl is?"—Closer still and breathless. "It's you—Frances—you!"
For answer, she lifted up her face to his. Then she was in his arms and nothing else mattered....
She was the first to break that rapturous spell, with words that stabbed him like knives or caressed him like soft hands.
"You've been—so honest with me, Hector," she said, a little tremulously, "that I'm going to be the same with you."
He bowed his head.
"You said you were afraid of famous men and millionaires—why, Hector, they sicken me. Hector, you're the first real man I've ever met. Oh, it isn't just that nice red coat—though that goes to my head like champagne, Hector. You are—you really are. Every girl has dreams, too. 'Some day,' I dreamt, 'I'll meet a real—real—man—brave, strong, chivalrous, with great, yes, great ideals—a fairy Prince, a Knight of the Round Table!' They say they don't live now—Oh, but they do! Perhaps the armour's gone, but they are Knights and Princes just the same. 'Well,' I said to myself, 'some day, God willing, I'll meet a man like that. How will I know him? Oh, I'll know him, never fear! And he'll come'—well, just as you came, Hector. And—it was you. I knew at once. Hector, I'd go with you to the world's end, if you asked me. But—Oh, Hector, there's——"
"I know," said Hector calmly. "Your father! He doesn't care for N.C.O.s——"
She looked away hastily.
"Oh, don't be ashamed," he added. "It's quite natural."
"You must see him," said Frances at last. "But you don't know him. He has a terrible temper and he's like granite—just like granite. Well, you must ask him—dear. We have to risk it. I don't think he'd—hurt me, Hector. Besides, you're a soldier's son—and—it isn't as if you had no prospects. But oh, I'm afraid—I'm afraid——" Her head sank on her breast. He took her two hands again and turned her towards him suddenly.
"Look at me!" he ordered, terribly earnest.
She obeyed.
"Frances—if—if your father says 'No'—will you wait? Will you stick to me? Only say that, and I'll wait for ever—to the very end, Frances. You say you know me. Well, believe me now."
Tears brimmed in her eyes.
"Will you, Frances?"
"Oh, Hector, I'll promise! But my father—my father——"
"I know. But I'll speak to him. I'll bring him round. For you, Frances"—his voice rang—"I'd fight the whole wide world! You must trust me."
"I'll tell Mother," she whispered, in return. "She'll be on our side. She'll help—prepare him, Hector. And, because you've got to go so soon," she faltered, but went on bravely, "I'll arrange things for tomorrow night. And I'll—I'll be praying for your success, Hector. You—you don't think me miserably weak?"
"No," said Hector swiftly, "of course not. Then that's settled. But, Oh——" for the first time his voice quavered with a note of agony, quickly suppressed, "if I fail—if I fail—wait for me. Wait for me! Will you?"
"Yes," she said again.
"Frances——!"
The moon went out behind a bank of cloud and the wind freshened, wailing.
At last they parted ... till 'Tomorrow.'
VII
"And so——?" said Major Edginton.
The two men faced each other in the Major's big living-room.
"And so," said Hector, "I want, sir, to marry your daughter."
The Major remained silent for a moment. Hector's heart beat furiously. Outwardly, he was perfectly calm.
"You—want—to—marry—my—daughter?"
Astonishment and stinging scorn!
Hector held himself strongly.
"Yes, sir."
Then suddenly the Major dashed his mask aside.
"And who the devil are you?" he almost shrieked.
The cry was to Hector a violent slap in the face. Deadly insult and utter defeat dominated it. But he stood firm. He had anticipated a hard fight.
"I don't know what you mean," he replied calmly, "I have already told you who I am."
The Major stared at him. For a moment Hector's personality beat him into sanity.
"But, good God, man—my daughter!" he exclaimed, under his breath. His hard eyes glared sombrely beneath their white brows. "My daughter!"
"Yes, sir."
Whatever happened, Hector must keep his temper. To lose it would be fatal.
"But—but——" the Major was incredible now and inclined toward laughter, "why—do you realize who I am?"
"Yes," said Hector, quite unawed.
"I'm a Major in the Regular Army! And you—and you—why——"
"Well?"
Hector's voice was very gentle but it said 'Be careful!'
The Major was deaf to the warning.
"You're nothing but——" he choked, "You're nothing but a N.C.O!"
The assertion goaded. Still Hector kept his temper. After all, this was Frances' father, who could make or mar their lives.
"That's true—nothing but a Sergeant-Major. From your point of view, sir, that's my misfortune. But many N.C.O.s are gentlemen. Anyway, I'm not asking your daughter to marry a Sergeant-Major who will be a Sergeant-Major for ever. I've already told you, sir, of my prospects."
"Prospects——" muttered the Major, "prospects are—prospects, sir, nothing more. To me you're a ranker and always will be. Have you got your recommendation for a Commission yet?" he concluded swiftly.
"No, sir."
"Well, then—but, good God, what's the use of my wasting time? I don't care whether you've a thousand recommendations! I look for something better for my daughter than a man in the ranks—or an officer who's served in the ranks. Confound it, they're all one to me—understand? My God, it's like your—your colossal impertinence——!"
He flashed into fury.
Hector had paled under his tan. He put out a hand.
"Steady, sir, please. Let's take this thing quietly."
"Hang you—now you're attempting to dictate—damnation, sir!"
"No, sir, I'm not. I want a chance, that's all. Your daughter—loves me, sir. You wouldn't break her heart?"
This was only adding fuel to the fire.
"Loves you? Break her heart? My God, but you—you have the most colossal impertinence I ever beheld!"
"It's true, sir. She's told you so herself."
"Pah!" the old man snarled. "She's a child—a child! A mere infatuation! A mere infatuation! Puppy-love, sir, puppy-love. You sweep her off her feet, swaggering about in your wretched red coat——"
"Wretched red coat, sir? The Queen's uniform, don't forget—the uniform you wore!"
The blow went home. The major mumbled.
"Well, in any case," he resumed at length, "it's a mere infatuation! As soon as you're gone, she'll forget all about you!"
Malicious vindictiveness inspired him.
"Do you think so, sir?"
Hector's voice was very unemotional.
"Yes, sir, I do! Why, good God, Sergeant-Major"—Hector knew that the 'Sergeant-Major' was slightingly meant and for a moment a strange light glowed in his eyes—"my daughter associates with men of position—men—men—hang it all, gentlemen!"
Again another slap in the face, vicious, stinging!
"Do I take it, sir," again Hector let the insult pass, fighting his battle for Frances with all the strength he had, "that the fact that I'm in the ranks is the big objection?"
The Major remained gloweringly silent.
"Is it?"
"M-m-perhaps," the old man snapped.
"And—and——" try as he would, Hector could not prevent his voice trembling as he put the fateful question, "will it stand against me always—Commission or no Commission?"
"Certainly," the Major replied firmly.
"That's final?"
"Good God, yes! How many times must I tell you?"
"But—you're a civilian now. I associate with gentlemen-civilians. We all do."
"Gentlemen-rankers do not associate with the circles in which my daughter is accustomed to move, sir! But I will not prolong this discussion. I don't know you—I don't want to know you——" the old man, rising to a pinnacle of temper, leaped suddenly to his feet. "Who are you? Nobody! Where do you come from? God knows! Who the devil was your father? God only knows! Your mother? God knows! Oh, leave my house, sir, leave my house!"
Insult on insult, stonily endured, for Frances' sake; but this last tirade was more than Hector could stand. He forgot everything now—Frances—the future—everything but the fact that this ranting old bigot had cast unforgivable reflections on his dead father, his mother and his own personal honour. Standing rigid under the rain of abuse, he remained so now, but his fists were clenched and his eyes blazing in a deathly face.
"Major Edginton," he said hoarsely, "thank God, you're an old, helpless man or nothing in the world would save you now! You can take her away, you can do what you like, but you can't kill her love or mine! We'll beat you, in the end. I'm sorry you took things this way. The fault for tonight's breach lies with you. Remember that—always!"
"Leave my house!"
Hector turned on his heel and marched blindly out of the room.
Frances, on the landing upstairs, fearing the worst, was praying incoherently, desperately. And then—the door of the living-room swung open, was softly closed and she heard Hector's firm tread—one—two—three—four—go through the hall, out of the house into silence, awful, heart-breaking silence.
Those measured sounds beat on her brain. She never forgot them. They marked this fact: Hector had failed.
Drunk with agony, she heard her mother's quavering, pitiful voice, 'My dear, my dear!' ...
Three days later the tearful Mrs. Tweedy smuggled a note into her hands.
"What was he like?" she asked.
"Oh, don't ask me—don't ask me," said Mrs. Tweedy.
This was the note—dated from John's:
"Frances, my Darling—
"I'm sorry I couldn't see you before I left. It was useless to attempt it, as your father would not allow it. Frances; your father and I had a terrible quarrel. He wouldn't hear of our marriage and he insulted me as no man ever dared to do before. I stood it as long as I could but, though I regret it now beyond any words, I couldn't put up with what he said in the end. Perhaps when I've got my Commission, he may relent. You must do your best to influence him. But in any case, I ask you to keep your promise to me. Keep it, and your courage. No matter how things go against us or how long we have to wait, I'll never change. Before God, I swear this, Frances. I know you have the strength to be true also. And if you ever can write or come to me, 'North-West Mounted Police, N.W.T.' will always find me. I'm going back today.
Till we meet again, then—
Hector."
The letter was written on a piece of John's notepaper with the Adair crest upon it. She looked at the crest and at the proud, stern motto, 'Strong.—Steadfast.' The words seemed to her the very embodiment of Hector, of his promise, of everything she must be and had sworn to be in the long and hopeless night before her.