Every element of that impulsive, idealistic nature helped on the tragedy.
Hugh Fernely understood Beatrice as perhaps no one else ever did.

He idealized himself.

To her at length he became a hero who had met with numberless adventures--a hero who had traveled and fought, brave and generous.

After a time he spoke to her of love, at first never appearing to suppose that she could care for him, but telling her of his own passionate worship how her face haunted him, filled his dreams at night, and shone before him all day--how the very ground she stood upon was sacred to him--how he envied the flowers she touched--how he would give up everything to be the rose that died in her hands.

It was all very pretty and poetical, and he knew how to find pretty, picturesque spots in the woods where the birds and the flowers helped him to tell his story.
Beatrice found it very pleasant to be worshiped like a queen; there was no more monotony for her.