Having taken a definite step in any direction, it was not in
Loder's nature to wish it retraced. His face was set, but set with
determination, when he closed the outer door of his own rooms and passed
quietly down the stairs and out into the silent court. The thought of
Chilcote, his pitiable condition, his sordid environments, were
things that required a firm will to drive into the background of the
imagination; but a whole inferno of such visions would not have daunted
Loder on that morning as, unobserved by any eyes, he left the little
court-yard with its grass, its trees, its pavement--all so distastefully
familiar--and passed down the Strand towards life and action.
As he walked, his steps increased in speed and vigor. Now, for the first
time, he fully appreciated the great mental strain that he had undergone
in the past ten days--the unnatural tension; the suppressed, but
perpetual, sense of impending recall; the consequently high pressure at
which work, and even existence, had been carried on. And as he hurried
forward the natural reaction to this state of things came upon him in a
flood of security and confidence--a strong realization of the temporary
respite and freedom for which no price would have seemed too high. The
moment for which he had unconsciously lived ever since Chilcote's first
memorable proposition was within reach at last--safeguarded by his own
action.
The walk from Clifford's Inn to Grosvenor Square was long enough to
dispel any excitement that his interview had aroused; and long before
the well-known house came into view he felt sufficiently braced mentally
and physically to seek Eve in the morning-room--where he instinctively
felt she would still be waiting for him.
Thus he encountered and overpassed the obstacle that had so nearly
threatened ruin; and, with the singleness of purpose that always
distinguished him, he was able, once having passed it, to dismiss it
altogether from his mind. From the moment of his return to Chilcote's
house no misgiving as to his own action, no shadow of doubt, rose to
trouble his mind. His feelings on the matter were quite simple. He had
inordinately desired a certain opportunity; one factor had arisen to
debar that opportunity, and he, claiming the right of strength, had set
the barrier aside. In the simplicity of the reasoning lay its power
to convince; and were a tonic needed to brace him for his task, he was
provided with one in the masterful sense of a difficulty set at nought.
For the man who has fought and conquered one obstacle feels strong to
vanquish a score.
It was on this day, at the reassembling of Parliament, that Fraide's
great blow was to be struck. In the ten days since the affair of the
caravans had been reported from Persia public feeling had run high, and
it was upon the pivot of this incident that Loder's attack was to turn;
for, as Lakely was fond of remarking, “In the scales of public opinion,
one dead Englishman has more weight than the whole Eastern Question!” It
had been arranged that, following the customary procedure, Loder was to
rise after questions at the morning sitting and ask leave to move
the adjournment of the House on a definite matter of urgent public
importance; upon which--leave having been granted by the rising of forty
members in his support--the way was to lie open for his definite attack
at the evening sitting. And it was with a mind attuned to this plan of
action that he retired to the study immediately he had breakfasted,
and settled to a final revision of his speech before an early party
conference should compel him to leave the house. But here again
circumstances were destined to change his programme. Scarcely had he
sorted his notes and drawn his chair to Chilcote's desk than Renwick
entered the room with the same air of important haste that he had shown
on a previous occasion.
“A letter from Mr. Fraide, sir. But there's no answer,” he said, with
unusual brevity.
Loder waited till he had left the room, then he tore the letter open. He
read:
“MY DEAR CHILCOTE,--Lakely is the recipient of special and very vital
news from Meshed--unofficial, but none the less alarming. Acts of
Russian aggression towards British traders are reported to be rapidly
increasing, and it is stated that the authority of the Consulate is
treated with contempt. Pending a possible confirmation of this, I would
suggest that you keep an open mind on the subject of to-night's speech.
By adopting an anticipatory--even an unprepared--attitude you may find
your hand materially strengthened. I shall put my opinions before you
more explicitly when we meet.
“Yours faithfully,
HERBERT FRAIDE.”
The letter, worded with Fraide's usual restraint, made a strong
impression on its recipient. The thought that his speech might not only
express opinions already tacitly held, but voice a situation of intense
and national importance, struck him with full force. For many minutes
after he had grasped the meaning of Fraide's message he sat neglectful
of his notes, his elbows resting on the desk, his face between
his hands, stirred by the suggestion that here might lie a greater
opportunity than any he had anticipated.
Still moved by this new suggestion, he attended the party conclave that
Fraide had convened, and afterwards lunched with and accompanied
his leader to the House. They spoke very little as they drove to
Westminster, for each was engrossed by his own thoughts. Only once did
Fraide allude to the incident that was paramount in both their minds.
Then, turning to Loder with a smile of encouragement, he had laid his
fingers for an instant on his arm.
“Chilcote,” he had said, “when the time comes, remember you have all my
confidence.”
Looking back upon that day, Loder often wondered at the calmness with
which he bore the uncertainty. To sit apparently unmoved, and wait
without emotion for news that might change the whole tenor of one's
action, would have tried the stoicism of the most experienced; to the
novice it was wellnigh unendurable. And it was under these conditions,
and fighting against these odds, that he sat through the long afternoon
in Chilcote's place, obeying the dictates of his chief. But if the day
was fraught with difficulties for him, it was fraught with dulness and
disappointment for others; for the undercurrent of interest that had
stirred at the Easter adjournment, and risen with added force on this
first day of the new session, was gradually but surely threatened with
extinction, as hour after hour passed, bringing no suggestion of
the battle that had on every side been tacitly expected. Slowly and
unmistakably speculation and dissatisfaction crept into the atmosphere
of the House, as moment succeeded moment, and the Opposition made no
sign. Was Fraide shirking the attack? Or was he playing a waiting game?
Again and again the question arose, filling the air with a passing
flicker of interest; but each time it sprang up only to die down again,
as the ordinary business of the day dragged itself out.
Gradually, as the afternoon wore on, daylight began to fade. Loder,
sitting rigidly in Chilcote's place, watched with suppressed inquiry the
faces of the men who entered through the constantly swinging doors;
but not one face, so eagerly scanned, carried the message for which he
waited. Monotonously and mechanically the time passed. The Government,
adopting a neutral attitude, carefully skirted all dangerous subjects;
while the Opposition, acting under Fraide's suggestion, assisted rather
than hindered the programme of postponement. For the moment the eagerly
anticipated reassembling threatened dismal failure; and it was with a
universal movement of weariness and relief that at last the House rose
to dine.
But there are no possibilities so elastic as those of politics.
At half-past seven the House rose in a spirit of boredom and
disappointment; and at eight o'clock the lobbies, the dining-room, the
entire space of the vast building, was stirred into activity by the
arrival of a single telegraphic message.
The new development for which Fraide had waited came indeed, but it
came with a force he had little anticipated. With a thrill of awe and
consternation men heard and repeated the astounding news that--while
personally exercising his authority on behalf of British traders--Sir
William Brice-Field, Consul-General at Meshed, had been fired at by a
Russian officer and instantly killed.
The interval immediately following the receipt of this news was too
confused for detailed remembrance. Two ideas made themselves slowly
felt--a deep horror that such an event could obtrude itself upon
our high civilization, and a strong personal dismay that so honored,
distinguished, and esteemed a representative as Sir William Brice-Field
could have been allowed to meet death in so terrible a manner.
It was in the consciousness of this feeling--the consciousness that, in
his own person, he might voice, not only the feelings of his party, but
those of the whole country--that Loder rose an hour later to make his
long-delayed attack.
He stood silent for a moment, as he had done on an earlier occasion;
but this time his motive was different. Roused beyond any feeling of
self-consciousness, he waited as by right for the full attention of
the House; then quietly, but with self-possessed firmness, he moved the
motion for adjournment.
Like a match to a train of powder, the words set flame to the excitement
that had smouldered for weeks; and in an atmosphere of stirring
activity, a scene of such tense and vital concentration as the House has
rarely witnessed, he found inspiration for his great achievement.
To give Loder's speech in mere words would be little short of futile.
The gift of oratory is too illusive, too much a matter of eye and voice
and individuality, to allow of cold reproduction. To those who heard him
speak on that night of April 18th the speech will require no recalling;
and to those who did not hear him there would be no substitute in bare
reproduction.
In the moment of action it mattered nothing to him that his previous
preparations were to a great extent rendered useless by this news that
had come with such paralyzing effect. In the sweeping consciousness
of his own ability, he found added joy in the freedom it opened up.
He ceased to consider that by fate he was a Conservative, bound by
traditional conventionalities: in that great moment he knew himself
sufficiently a man to exercise whatever individuality instinct prompted.
He forgot the didactic methods by which he had proposed to show
knowledge of his subject--both as a past and a future factor in European
politics. With his own strong appreciation of present things, he saw and
grasped the vast present interest lying beneath his hand.
For fifty minutes he held the interest of the House, speaking
insistently, fearlessly, commandingly on the immediate need of action.
He unhesitatingly pointed out that the news which had just reached
England was not so much an appalling fact as a sinister warning to those
in whose keeping lay the safety of the country's interests. Lastly, with
a fine touch of eloquence, he paid tribute to the steadfast fidelity
of such men as Sir William Brice-Field, who, whatever political
complications arise at home, pursue their duty unswervingly on the
outposts of the empire.
At his last words there was silence--the silence that marks a genuine
effect--then all at once, with vehement, impressive force, the storm of
enthusiasm broke its bounds.
It was one of those stupendous bursts of feeling that no etiquette, no
decorum is powerful enough to quell. As he resumed his seat, very pale,
but exalted as men are exalted only once or twice in a lifetime, it rose
about him--clamorous, spontaneous, undeniable. Near at hand were the
faces of his party, excited and triumphant; across the house were the
faces of Sefborough and his Ministry, uncomfortable and disturbed.
The tumult swelled, then fell away; and in the partial lull that
followed Fraide leaned over the back of his seat. His quiet, dignified
expression was unaltered, but his eyes were intensely bright.
“Chilcote,” he whispered, “I don't congratulate you--or myself. I
congratulate the country on possessing a great man!”
The remaining features of the debate followed quickly one upon the
other; the electric atmosphere of the House possessed a strong incentive
power. Immediately Loder's ovation had subsided, the Under-Secretary
for Foreign Affairs rose and in a careful and non-incriminating reply
defended the attitude of the Government.
Next came Fraide, who, in one of his rare and polished speeches, touched
with much feeling upon his personal grief at the news reported from
Persia, and made emphatic indorsement of Loder's words.
Following Fraide came one or two dissentient Liberals, and then
Sefborough himself closed the debate. His speech was masterly and
fluent; but though any disquietude he may have felt was well disguised
under a tone of reassuring ease, the attempt to rehabilitate his
position--already weakened in more than one direction--was a task beyond
his strength.
Amid extraordinary excitement the division followed--and with it a
Government defeat.
It was not until half an hour after the votes had, been taken that
Loder, freed at last from persistent congratulations, found opportunity
to look for Eve. In accordance with a promise made that morning, he
was to find her waiting outside the Ladies' Gallery at the close of the
debate.
Disengaging himself from the group of men who had surrounded and
followed him down the lobby, he discarded the lift and ran up the narrow
staircase. Reaching the landing, he went forward hurriedly; then with a
certain abrupt movement he paused. In the doorway leading to the gallery
Eve was waiting for him. The place was not brightly lighted, and she
was standing in the shadow; but it needed only a glance to assure his
recognition. He could almost have seen in the dark that night, so vivid
were his perceptions. He took a step towards her, then again he stopped.
In a second glance he realized that her eyes were bright with tears;
and it was with the strangest sensation he had ever experienced that the
knowledge flashed upon him. Here, also, he had struck the same note--the
long-coveted note of supremacy. It had rung out full and clear as he
stood in Chilcote's place dominating the House; it had besieged him
clamorously as he passed along the lobbies amid a sea of friendly hands
and voices; now in the quiet of the deserted gallery it came home to him
with deeper meaning from the eyes of Chilcote's wife.
Without a thought he put out his hands and caught hers.
“I couldn't get away,” he said. “I'm afraid I'm very late.”
With a smile that scattered her tears Eve looked up. “Are you?” she
said, laughing a little. “I don't know what the time is. I scarcely know
whether it's night or day.”
Still holding one of her hands, he drew her down the stairs; but as they
reached the last step she released her fingers.
“In the carriage!” she said, with another little laugh of nervous
happiness.
At the foot of the stairs they were surrounded. Men whose faces Loder
barely knew crowded about him. The intoxication of excitement was still
in the air--the instinct that a new force had made itself felt, a new
epoch been entered upon, stirred prophetically in every mind.
Passing through the enthusiastic concourse of men, they came
unexpectedly upon Fraide and Lady Sarah surrounded by a group of
friends. The old statesman came forward instantly, and, taking Loder's
arm, walked with him to Chilcote's waiting brougham. He said little
as they slowly made their way to the carriage, but the pressure of his
fingers was tense and an unwonted color showed in his face. When Eve
and Loder had taken their seats he stepped to the edge of the curb. They
were alone for the moment, and, leaning close to the carriage, he put
his hand through the open window. In silence he took Eve's fingers and
held them in a long, affectionate pressure; then he released them and
took Loder's hand.
“Good-night, Chilcote,” he said. “You have proved yourself worthy of
her. Good-night.” He turned quickly and rejoined his waiting friends.
In another second the horses had wheeled round, and Eve and Loder were
carried swiftly forward into the darkness.
In the great moments of man's life woman comes before--and after. Some
shadow of this truth was in, Eve's mind as she lay back in her seat with
closed eyes, and parted lips. It seemed that life came to her now for
the first time--came in the glad, proud, satisfying tide of things
accomplished. This was her hour: and the recognition of it brought the
blood to her face in a sudden, happy rush. There had been no need to
precipitate its coming; it had been ordained from the first. Whether she
desired it or no, whether she strove to draw it nearer or strove to ward
it off, its coming had been inevitable. She opened her eyes suddenly and
looked out into the darkness--the darkness throbbing with multitudes of
lives, all awaiting, all desiring fulfilment. She was no longer lonely,
no longer aloof; she was kin with all this pitiful, admirable, sinning,
loving humanity. Again tears of pride and happiness filled her eyes.
Then suddenly the thing she had waited for came to pass.
Loder leaned close to her. She was conscious of his nearer presence, of
his strong, masterful personality. With a thrill that caught her breath,
she felt his arm. about her shoulder and heard the sound of his voice.
“Eve,” he said,--“I love you. Do you understand I love you.” And drawing
her close to him he bent and kissed her.
With Loder, to do was to do fully. When he gave, he gave generously;
when he swept aside a barrier he left no stone standing. He had
been slow to recognize his capacities--slower still to recognize his
feelings. But now that the knowledge came he received it openly. In this
matter of newly comprehended love he gave no thought to either past or
future. That they loved and were alone was all he knew or questioned.
She was as much Eve--the one woman--as though they were together in the
primeval garden; and in that spirit he claimed her.
He neither spoke nor behaved extravagantly in that great moment of
comprehension. He acted quietly, with the completeness of purpose that
he gave to everything. He had found a new capacity within himself, and
he was strong enough to dread no weakness in displaying it.
Holding her close to him, he repeated his declaration again and again,
as though repetition ratified it. He found no need to question her
feeling for him--he had divined it in a flash of inspiration as she
stood waiting in the doorway of the gallery; but his own surrender was a
different matter.
As the carriage passed round the corner of Whitehall and dipped into the
traffic of Piccadilly he bent down again until her soft hair brushed his
face; and the warm personal contact, the slight, fresh smell of violets
so suggestive of her presence, stirred' him afresh.
“Eve,” he said, vehemently, “do you understand? Do you know that I have
loved you always--from the very first?” As he said it he bent still
nearer, kissing her lips, her forehead, her hair.
At the same moment the horses slackened speed and then stopped, arrested
by one of the temporary blocks that so often occur in the traffic of
Piccadilly Circus.
Loder, preoccupied with his own feelings, scarcely noticed the halt, but
Eve drew away from him laughing.
“You mustn't!” she said, softly. “Look!”
The carriage had stopped beside one of the small islands that intersect
the place; a group of pedestrians were crowded upon it, under the light
of the electric lamp--wayfarers who, like themselves, were awaiting a
passage. Loder took a cursory glance at them, then turned back to Eve.
“What are they, after all, but men and women?” he said. “They'd
understand--every one of them.” He laughed in his turn; nevertheless he
withdrew his arm. Her feminine thought for conventionalities appealed to
him. It was an acknowledgment of dependency.
For a while they sat silent, the light of the street lamp flickering
through the glass of the window, the hum of voices and traffic coming to
them in a continuous rise and fall of sound. At first the position
was interesting; but, as the seconds followed each other, it gradually
became irksome. Loder, watching the varying expressions of Eve's face,
grew impatient of the delay, grew suddenly eager to be alone again in
the fragrant darkness.
Impelled by the desire, he leaned forward and opened the window.
“Let's find the meaning of this,” he said. “Is there nobody to regulate
the traffic?” As he spoke he half rose and leaned out of the window.
There was a touch of imperious annoyance in his manner. Fresh from the
realization of power, there was something irksome in this commonplace
check to his desires.
“Isn't it possible to get out of this?” Eve heard him call to the
coachman. Then she heard no more.
He had leaned out of the carriage with the intention of looking onward
towards the cause of the delay; instead, by that magnetic attraction
that undoubtedly exists, he looked directly in front of him at the group
of people waiting on the little island--at one man who leaned against
the lamp-post in an attitude of apathy--a man with a pallid, unshaven
face and lustreless eyes, who wore a cap drawn low over his forehead.
He looked at this man, and the man saw and returned his glance. For a
space that seemed interminable they held each other's eyes; then very
slowly Loder drew back into the carriage.
As he dropped into his seat, Eve glanced at him anxiously.
“John,” she said, “has anything happened? You look ill.”
He turned to her and tried to smile.
“It's nothing,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.” He spoke quickly, but
his voice had suddenly become flat. All the command, all the domination
had dropped away from it.
Eve bent close to him, her face lighting up with anxious tenderness. “It
was the excitement,” she said, “the strain of tonight.”
He looked at her; but he made no attempt to press the fingers that
clasped his own.
“Yes,” he said, slowly. “Yes. It was the excitement of to-night--and the
reaction.”