There was joy enough in that.
Secondly, he told himself, it meant that the second, more distant and ultimate goal of his life was now within reach if not within sight. The soldier-blood in him had always longed for the opportunity of great service to his country, for advancement and distinction, not from selfish motives, but from the pure, clean motives underlying the highest form of patriotism. 'Give me power, that I may use it for my country's good'; that was the sentiment animating him. The power, though not yet given him, was now close at hand. The long, toilsome pilgrimage had brought him at last to the edges of the dawn.
There was also joy enough in that.
But thirdly—and perhaps, chiefly—it meant—Frances; not that Frances was now his, by any means. But he could stand up now before her father and say: 'You wouldn't listen to me before, because I was not an officer. I am an officer today. What is your answer?'
When Hector left Major Edginton's house, he had suffered a broken-hearted agony far beyond any physical torment he had ever known. Injured pride, self-pity and, above all, outraged love had combined to harry him and he had tasted their torture as only strong natures can taste it in the first tragic shock of disillusionment. This agony had driven him out of Arcady early on the following morning without an attempt to say 'Good-bye' to Frances. It made itself more acute because it forbade him to tell Mrs. Tweedy what had happened, though he knew that she sensed the crash and he was longing to give way to his misery. It persisted in even fiercer form during the last few days at John's, but during that time, in spite of it, he had forced himself to write a note to Frances for secret delivery by Mrs. Tweedy. At Winnipeg, on the return journey West, it laughed in bitter mockery in his ears when he saw his prophetic friends and was compelled to make a jest of the absence of the bride they had expected. And it reached its climax when, writing Mrs. Tweedy for news, he learned that the Edgintons had left Arcady, immediately after his own departure, for an address in New York given her by Frances—the only message the girl had been able to leave.
Gradually, however, the first acute pain passed, leaving a dull, lingering torment which in time became almost a part of himself. With this transition, he recovered something of his old buoyancy and determination. Destiny had made a mock of him but its trickery, after all, might be only temporary. He knew what he would do! He would redouble his efforts, by hard work and untiring study, to win his Commission. And then, when he had his Commission,—well, Major Edginton would relent, if Destiny so decided. And if he did not relent—well, he would still have his old dreams of advancement to follow and would be on the threshold of achievement.
Having made up his mind, he at once set about the task with his usual vigour. The task was not difficult. Long before meeting Frances, he had made great progress. His officers were interested and helped him along in the kindest possible way. Eighteen months after his return from Arcady, six months previous to this day of days, Superintendent Denton had dropped him a hint of what was coming.
And today—today!—
He was happier than he had been since that fateful night now two years past.
He knew that, as far as Frances was concerned, he was not yet on dry land. Nevertheless, he had her address—the lifeline holding them together, without which he felt he would certainly have drowned. It was enough, today, to know that he might at last stand up before Major Edginton to claim Frances. He was determined not to admit any possibility of failure, to leave no room for fears that Frances might have moved again or, worse, forgotten him. She had not written him? That was nothing; the Major might have prevented her. It was sufficient that he had her address and that she had promised to wait till the end.