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.