On the same day that Chilcote had parted with Lillian--but at three
o'clock in the afternoon--Loder, dressed in Chilcote's clothes and with
Chilcote's heavy overcoat slung over his arm, walked from Fleet Street
to Grosvenor Square. He walked steadily, neither slowly nor yet fast.
The elation of his last journey over the same ground was tempered by
feelings he could not satisfactorily bracket even to himself. There was
less of vehement elation and more of matured determination in his gait
and bearing than there had been on that night, though the incidents of
which they were the outcome were very complex.
On reaching Chilcote's house he passed up-stairs; but, still following
the routine of his previous return, he did not halt at Chilcote's door,
but moved onward towards Eve's sitting-room and there paused.
In that pause his numberless irregular thoughts fused into one.
He had the same undefined sense of standing upon sacred ground that had
touched him on the previous occasion, but the outcome of the sensation
was different. This time he raised his hand almost immediately and
tapped on the door.
He waited, but no voice responded to his knock. With a sense of
disappointment he knocked again; then, pressing his determination still
further, he turned the handle and entered the room.
No private room is without meaning--whether trivial or the reverse. In
a room, perhaps more even than in speech, in look, or in work, does the
impress of the individual make itself felt. There, on the wax of outer
things, the inner self imprints its seal-enforces its fleeting claim to
separate individuality. This thought, with its arresting interest, made
Loder walk slowly, almost seriously, half-way across the room and then
pause to study his surroundings.
The room was of medium size--not too large for comfort and not too
small for ample space. At a first impression it struck him as unlike any
anticipation of a woman's sanctum. The walls panelled in dark wood; the
richly bound books; the beautifully designed bronze ornaments; even
the flowers, deep crimson and violet-blue in tone, had an air of sombre
harmony that was scarcely feminine. With a strangely pleasant impression
he realized this, and, following his habitual impulse, moved slowly
forward towards the fireplace and there paused, his elbow resting on the
mantel-piece.
He had scarcely settled comfortably into his position, scarcely entered
on his second and more comprehensive study of the place, than the
arrangement of his mind was altered by the turning of the handle and the
opening of the door.
The new-comer was Eve herself. She was dressed in outdoor clothes, and
walked into the room quickly; then, as Loder had done, she too paused.
The gesture, so natural and spontaneous, had a peculiar attraction;
as she glanced up at him, her face alight with inquiry, she seemed
extraordinarily much the owner and designer of her surroundings. She
was framed by them as naturally and effectively as her eyes and her
face were framed by her black hair. For one moment he forgot that
his presence demanded explanation; the next she had made explanation
needless. She had been looking at him intently; now she came forward
slowly.
“John?” she said, half in appeal, half in question.
He took a step towards her. “Look at me,” he said, quietly and
involuntarily. In the sharp desire to establish himself in her regard he
forgot that her eyes had never left his face.
But the incongruity of the words did not strike her. “Oh!” she
exclaimed, “I--I believe I _knew_, directly I saw you here.” The quick
ring of life vibrating in her tone surprised him. But he had other
thoughts more urgent than surprise.
In the five days of banishment just lived through, the need for
a readjustment of his position with regard to her had come to him
forcibly. The memory of the night when weakness and he had been
at perilously close quarters had returned to him persistently and
uncomfortably, spoiling the remembrance of his triumph. It had been well
enough to smother the thought of that night in days of work. But had
the ignoring of it blotted out the weakness? Had it not rather thrown it
into bolder relief? A man strong in his own strength does not turn his
back upon temptation; he faces and quells it. In the solitary days in
Clifford's Inn, in the solitary night-hours spent in tramping the city
streets, this had been the conviction that had recurred again and again,
this the problem to which, after much consideration, he had found a
solution--satisfactory at least to himself. When next Chilcote called
him--It was notable that he had used the word “when” and not “if.” When
next Chilcote called him he would make a new departure. He would no
longer avoid Eve; he would successfully prove to himself that one
interest and one alone filled his mind--the pursuance of Chilcote's
political career. So does man satisfactorily convince himself against
himself. He had this intention fully in mind as he came forward now.
“Well,” he said, slowly, “has it been very hard to have faith--these
last five days?” It was not precisely the tone he had meant to adopt;
but one must begin.
Eve turned at his words. Her eyes were brimming with life, her cheeks
still touched to a deep, soft color by the keenness of the wintry air.
“No,” she answered, with a shy, responsive touch of confidence. “I
seemed to keep on believing. You know converts make the best devotees.”
She laughed with slight embarrassment, and glanced up at him. Something
in the blue of her eyes reminded him unexpectedly of spring skies--full
of youth and promise.
He moved abruptly, and crossed the room towards the window. “Eve,” he
said, without looking round, “I want your help.”
He heard the faint rustling of her dress as she turned towards him, and
he knew that he had struck the right chord. All true women respond to
an appeal for aid as steel answers to the magnet. He could feel her
expectancy in the silence.
“You know--we all know--that the present moment is very vital. That it's
impossible to deny the crisis in the air. Nobody feels it more than I
do--nobody is more exorbitantly keen to have a share--a part, when the
real fight comes--” He stopped; then he turned slowly and their
eyes met. “If a man is to succeed in such a desire,” he went on,
deliberately, “he must exclude all others--he must have one purpose, one
interest, one thought. He must forget that--”
Eve lifted her head quickly. “--that he has a wife,” she finished,
gently. “I think I understand.”
There was no annoyance in her face or voice, no suggestion of
selfishness or of hurt vanity. She had read his meaning with
disconcerting clearness, and responded with disconcerting generosity. A
sudden and very human dissatisfaction with his readjustment scheme fell
upon Loder. Opposition is the whip to action; a too-ready acquiescence
the slackened rein.
“Did I say that?” he asked, quickly. The tone was almost Chilcote's.
She glanced up; then a sudden, incomprehensible smile lighted up her
face.
“You didn't say, but you thought,” she answered, gravely. “Thoughts are
the same as words to a woman. That's why we are so unreasonable.” Again
she smiled. Some idea, baffling and incomprehensible to Loder, was
stirring in her mind.
Conscious of the impression, he moved still nearer. “You jump to
conclusions,” he said, abruptly. “What I meant to imply--”
“--was precisely what I've understood.” Again she finished his sentence.
Then she laughed softly. “How very wise, but how very, very foolish men
are! You come to the conclusion that because a woman is--is interested
in you she is going to hamper you in some direction, and after infinite
pains you summon all your tact and you set about saving the situation.”
There was interest, even a touch of amusement, in her tone, her eyes
were still fixed upon his in an indefinable glance. “You think you are
being very diplomatic,” she went on, quietly, “but in reality you are
being very transparent. The woman reads the whole of your meaning in
your very first sentence--if she hasn't known it before you began to
speak.”
Again Loder made an interruption, but again she checked him. “No,” she
said, still smiling. “You should never attempt such a task. Shall I tell
you why?”
He stood silent, puzzled and interested.
“Because,” she said, quickly, “when a woman really is--interested,
the man's career ranks infinitely higher in her eyes than any personal
desire for power.”
For a moment their eyes met, then abruptly Loder looked away. She had
gauged his intentions incorrectly, yet with disconcerting insight.
Again the suggestion of an unusual personality below the serenity of her
manner recurred to his imagination.
With an impulse altogether foreign to him he lifted his head and again
met her glance. Then at last he spoke, but only two words. “Forgive me!”
he said, with simple, direct sincerity.