Loder's frame of mind as he left Cadogan Gardens was peculiar. Once more
he was living in the present--the forceful, exhilarating present, and
the knowledge braced him. Upon one point his mind was satisfied. Lillian
Astrupp had found the telegram, and it remained to him to render her
find valueless. How he proposed to do this, how he proposed to come out
triumphant in face of such a situation, was a matter that as yet was
shapeless in his mind; nevertheless, the danger--the sense of impending
conflict--had a savor of life after the inaction of the day and night
just passed. Chilcote in his weakness and his entanglement had turned to
him; and he in his strength and capacity had responded to the appeal.
His step was firm and his bearing assured as he turned into Grosvenor
Square and walked towards the familiar house.
The habit of self-deceit is as insidious and tenacious as any vice.
For one moment on the night of his great speech, as he leaned out of
Chilcote's carriage and met Chilcote's eyes, Loder had seen himself--and
under the shock of revelation had taken decisive action. But in the
hours subsequent to that action the plausible, inner voice had whispered
unceasingly, soothing his wounded self-esteem, rebuilding stone by stone
the temple of his egotism; until at last when Chilcote, panic-stricken
at his own action, had burst into his rooms ready to plead or to coerce,
he had found no need for either coercion or entreaty. By a power more
subtle and effective than any at his command, Loder had been prepared
for his coming--unconsciously ready with an acquiescence before his
appeal had been made. It was the fruit of this preparation, the
inevitable outcome of it, that strengthened his step and steadied his
hand as he mounted the steps and opened the hall door of Chilcote's
house on that eventful afternoon.
The dignity, the air of quiet solidity, impressed him as it never
failed to do, as he crossed the large hall and ascended the stairs--the
same stairs that he had passed down almost as an outcast not so many
hours before. He was filled with the sense of things regained; belief in
his own star lifted him as it had done a hundred times before in these
same surroundings.
He quickened his steps as the sensation came to him. Then, reaching the
head of the stairs, he turned directly towards Eve's sitting-room, and,
gaining the door, knocked. The strength of his eagerness, the quick
beating of his pulse as he waited for a response, surprised him. He had
told himself many times that his passion, however strong, would never
again conquer as it had done two nights ago--and the fact that he had
come thus candidly to Eve's room was to his mind a proof that temptation
could be dared. Nevertheless there was something disconcerting to a
strong man in this merely physical perturbation; and when Eve's voice
came to him, giving permission to enter, he paused for an instant to
steady himself; then with sudden decision he opened the door and walked
into the room.
The blinds were partly drawn, there was a scent of violets in the air,
and a fire glowed warmly in the grate. He noted these things carefully,
telling himself that a man should always be alertly sensible of his
surroundings; then all at once the nice balancing of detail suddenly
gave way. He forgot everything but the one circumstance that Eve was
standing in the window--her back to the light, her face towards him.
With his pulses beating faster and an unsteady sensation in his brain,
he moved forward holding out his hand.
“Eve--?” he said below his breath.
But Eve remained motionless. As he came into the room she had glanced at
him--a glance of quick, searching question; then with equal suddenness
she had averted her eyes. As he drew close to her now, she remained
immovable.
“Eve--” he said again. “I wanted to see you--I wanted to explain about
yesterday and about this morning.” He paused, suddenly disturbed. The
full remembrance of the scene in the brougham had surged up at sight
of her--had risen a fierce, unquenchable recollection. “Eve--” he began
again in a new, abrupt tone.
And then it was that Eve showed herself in a fresh light. From his
entrance into the room she had stayed motionless, save for her first
glance of acute inquiry; but now her demeanor changed. For almost the
first time in Loder's knowledge of her the vitality and force that he
had vaguely apprehended below her quiet, serene exterior sprang up like
a flame within whose radius things are illuminated. With a quick gesture
she turned towards him, her warm color deepening, her eyes suddenly
alight.
“I understand,” she said, “I understand. Don't try to explain! Can't you
see that it's enough to--to see you as you are--?”
Loder was surprised. Remembering their last passionate scene, and the
damper Chilcote's subsequent presence must inevitably have cast upon
it, he had expected to be doubtfully received; but the reality of the
reception left him bewildered. Eve's manner was not that of the ill-used
wife; its vehemence, its note of desire and depreciation, were more
suggestive of his own ardent seizing of the present, as distinguished
from past or future. With an odd sense of confusion he turned to her
afresh.
“Then I am forgiven?” he said. And unconsciously, as he moved nearer, he
touched her arm.
At his touch she started. All the yielding sweetness, all the
submission, that had marked her two nights ago was gone; in its
place she was possessed by a curious excitement that stirred while it
perplexed.
Loder, moved by the sensation, took another step forward. “Then I am
forgiven?” he repeated, more softly.
Her face was averted as he spoke, but he felt hen arm quiver; and when
at last she lifted her head, their eyes met. Neither spoke, but in an
instant Loder's arms were round her.
For a long, silent space they stood holding each other closely. Then,
with a sharp movement, Eve freed Herself. Her color was still high, her
eyes still peculiarly bright, but the bunch of violets she had worn in
her belt had fallen to the ground.
“John--” she said, quickly; but on the word her breath caught. With a
touch of nervousness she stooped to pick up the flowers.
Loder noticed both voice and gesture. “What is it?” he said. “What were
you going to say?”
But she made no answer. For a second longer she searched for the
violets; then, as he bent to assist her, she stood up quickly and
laughed--a short, embarrassed laugh.
“How absurd and nervous I am!” she exclaimed. “Like a schoolgirl instead
of a woman of twenty-four. You must help me to be sensible.” Her cheeks
still burned, her manner was still excited, like one who holds an
emotion or an impulse at bay.
Loder looked at her uncertainly. “Eve--” he began afresh with his odd,
characteristic perseverance, but she instantly checked him. There was a
finality, a faint suggestion of fear, in her protest.
“Don't!” she said. “Don't! I don't want explanations. I want to--to
enjoy the moment without having things analyzed or smoothed away. Can't
you understand? Can't you see that I'm wonderfully, terribly happy
to--to have you--as you are!” Again her voice broke--a break that might
have been a laugh or a sob.
The sound was an emotional crisis, as such a sound invariably is. It
arrested and steadied her. For a moment she stood absolutely still;
then, with something very closely resembling her old repose of manner,
she stooped again and quietly picked up the flowers still lying at her
feet.
“Now,” she said, quietly, “I must say what I've wanted to say all along.
How does it feel to be a great man?” Her manner was controlled, she
looked at him evenly and directly; save for the faint vibration in her
voice there was nothing to indicate the tumult of a moment ago.
But Loder was still uncertain. He caught her hand, his eyes searching
hers.
“But Eve--” he began.
Then Eve played the last card in her mysterious game. Laughing quickly
and nervously, she freed her hand and laid it over his mouth.
“No!” she said. “Not one word! All this past fortnight has belonged to
you; now it's my turn. To-day is mine.”