To fully appreciate a great announcement we must have time at our
disposal. At the moment of Loder's disclosure time was denied to
Eve; for scarcely had the words left his lips before the thought that
dominated him asserted its prior claim. Blind to the incredulity in her
eyes, he drew her swiftly forward, and--half impelling, half supporting
her--forced her to descend the stairs.
Never in after-life could he obliterate the remembrance of that descent.
Fear, such as he could never experience in his own concerns, possessed
him. One desire overrode all others--the desire that Eve's reputation,
which he himself had so nearly imperilled, should remain unimperilled.
In the shadow of that urgent duty, the despair of the past hours, the
appalling fact so lately realized, the future with its possible trials,
became dark to his imagination. In his new victory over self, the
question of her protection predominated.
Moving under this compulsion, he guided her hastily and silently down
the deserted stairs, drawing a breath of deep relief as, one after
another, the landings were successively passed; and still actuated by
the suppressed need of haste, he passed through the door-way that they
had entered under such different conditions only a few minutes before.
To leave the quiet court, to gain the Strand, to hail a belated hansom
was the work of a moment. By an odd contrivance of circumstance, the
luck that had attended every phase of his dual life was again exerted in
his behalf. No one had noticed their entry into Clifford's Inn; no one
was moved to curiosity by their exit. With an involuntary thrill of
feeling he gave expression to his relief.
“Thank God, it's over!” he said, as a cab drew up. “You don't know what
the strain has been.”
Moving as if in a dream, Eve stepped into the cab. As yet the terrible
denouement to their enterprise had made no clear impression upon
her mind. For the moment all that she was conscious of, all that she
instinctively acknowledged, was the fact that Loder was still beside
her.
In quiet obedience she took her place, drawing aside her skirts to
make room for him; and in the same subdued manner, he stepped into the
vehicle. Then, with the strange sensation of reliving their earlier
drive, they were aware of the tightened rein and of the horse's first
forward movement.
For several seconds neither spoke. Eve, shutting out all other thoughts,
sat close to Loder, clinging tenaciously to the momentary comforting
sense of protection; Loder, striving to marshal his ideas, hesitated
before the ordeal of speech. At last, realizing his responsibility, he
turned to her slowly.
“Eve,” he said, in a low voice and with some hesitation, “I want you
to know that in all this--from the moment I saw him--from the moment I
understood--I have had you in my thoughts--you and no one else.”
She raised her eyes to his face.
“Do you realize--?” he began afresh. “Do you know what this--this thing
means?”
Still she remained silent.
“It means that after to-night there will be no such person in London as
John Loder. To-morrow the man who was known by that name will be
found in his rooms; his body will be removed, and at the post-modern
examination it will be stated that he died of an overdose of morphia.
His charwoman will identify him as a solitary man who lived respectably
for years and then suddenly went down-hill with remarkable speed. It
will be quite a common case. Nothing of interest will be found in his
rooms; no relation will claim his body; after the usual time he will
be given the usual burial of his class. These details are horrible; but
there are times when we must look at the horrible side of life--because
life is incomplete without it.
“These things I speak of are the things that will meet the casual eye;
but in our sight they will have a very different meaning.
“Eve,” he said, more vehemently, “a whole chapter in my life has been
closed to-night, and my first instinct is to shut the book and throw it
away. But I'm thinking of you. Remember, I'm thinking of you! Whatever
the trial, whatever the difficulty, no harm shall come to you. You have
my word for that!
“I'll return with you now to Grosvenor Square; I'll remain there till a
reasonable excuse can be given for Chilcote's going abroad; I will
avoid Fraide, I will cut politics--whatever the cost; then, at the first
reasonable moment, I will do what I would do now, to-night if it were
possible. I'll go away, start afresh; do in another country what I have
done in this.”
There was a long silence; then Eve turned to him. The apathy of a
moment before had left her face. “In another country?” she repeated. “In
another country?”
“Yes; a fresh career in a fresh country. Something clean to offer you.
I'm not too old to do what other men have done.”
He paused, and for a moment Eve looked ahead at the gleaming chain of
lamps; then, still very slowly, she brought her glance back again. “No,”
she said very slowly. “You are not too old. But there are times when
age--and things like age--are not the real consideration. It seems to me
that your own inclination, your own individual sense of right and wrong,
has nothing to do with the present moment. The question is whether you
are justified in going away”--she paused, her eyes fixed steadily upon
his--“whether you are free to go away, and make a new life--whether
it is ever justifiable to follow a phantom light when--when there's a
lantern waiting to be carried.” Her breath caught; she drew away from
him, frightened and elated by her own words.
Loder turned to her sharply. “Eve!” he exclaimed; then his tone changed.
“You don't know what you're saying,” he added, quickly; “you don't
understand what you're saying.”
Eve leaned forward again. “Yes,” she said, slowly, “I do understand.”
Her voice was controlled, her manner convinced. She was no longer the
girl conquered by strength greater than her own: she was the woman
strenuously demanding her right to individual happiness.
“I understand it all,” she repeated. “I understand every point. It was
not Chance that made you change your identity, that made you care for
me, that brought about--his death. I don't believe it was Chance; I
believe it was something much higher. You are not meant to go away!”
As Loder watched her the remembrance of his first days as Chilcote rose
again; the remembrance of how he had been dimly filled with the belief
that below her self-possession lay a strength--a depth--uncommon
in woman. As he studied her now, the instinctive belief flamed into
conviction. “Eve!” he said involuntarily.
With a quick gesture she raised her head. “No!” she exclaimed. “No;
don't say anything! You are going to see things as I see them--you must
do so--you have no choice. No real man ever casts away the substance for
the shadow!” Her eyes shone--the color, the glow, the vitality, rushed
back into her face.
“John,” she said, softly, “I love you--and I need you--but there is
something with a greater claim--a greater need than mine. Don't you know
what it is?”
He said nothing; he made no gesture.
“It is the party--the country. You may put love aside, but duty is
different. You have pledged yourself. You are not meant to draw back.”
Loder's lips parted.
“Don't!” she said again. “Don't say anything! I know all that is in your
mind. But, when we sift things right through, it isn't my love--or our
happiness--that's really in the balance. It is your future!”
Her voice thrilled. “You are going to be a great man, and a great man is
the property of his country. He has no right to individual action.”
Again Loder made an effort to speak, but again she checked him.
“Wait!” she exclaimed. “Wait! You believe you have acted wrongly, and
you are desperately afraid of acting wrongly again. But is it really
truer, more loyal for us to work out a long probation in grooves that
are already overfilled than to marry quietly abroad and fill the places
that have need of us? That is the question I want you to answer. Is it
really truer and nobler? Oh, I see the doubt that is in your mind! You
think it finer to go away and make a new life than to live the life that
is waiting you--because one is independent and the other means the use
of another man's name and another man's money--that is the thought in
your mind. But what is it that prompts that thought?” Again her voice
caught, but her eyes did not falter. “I will tell you. It is not
self-sacrifice--but pride!” She said the word fearlessly.
A flush crossed Loder's face. “A man requires pride,” he said in a low
voice.
“Yes, at the right time. But is this the right time? Is it ever right
to throw away the substance for the shadow? You say that I don't
understand--don't realize. I realize more to-night than I have realized
in all my life. I know that you have an opportunity that can never come
again--and that it's terribly possible to let it slip--”
She paused. Loder, his hands resting on the closed doors of the cab, sat
very silent, with averted eyes and bent head.
“Only to-night,” she went on, “you told me that everything was crying
to you to take the easy, pleasant way. Then it was strong to turn aside;
but now it is not strong. It is far nobler to fill an empty niche than
to carve one for yourself. John--” She suddenly leaned forward, laying
her hands over his. “Mr. Fraide told me to-night that in his new
ministry my--my husband was to be Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs!”
The words fell softly. So softly that to ears less comprehending than
Loder's their significance might have been lost--as his rigid attitude
and unresponsive manner might have conveyed lack of understanding to any
eyes less observant than Eve's.
For a long space there was no word spoken. At last, with a very gentle
pressure, her fingers tightened over his hands.
“John--” she began, gently. But the word died away. She drew back into
her seat, as the cab stopped before Chilcote's house.
Simultaneously as they descended, the hall door was opened and a flood
of warm light poured out reassuringly into the darkness.
“I thought it was your cab, sir,” Crapham explained deferentially as
they passed into the hall. “Mr. Fraide has been waiting to see you this
half-hour. I showed him into the study.” He closed the door; softly and
retired.
Then, in the warm light, amid the gravely dignified surroundings that
had marked his first entry into this hazardous second existence, Eve
turned to Loder for the verdict upon which the future hung.
As she turned, his face was still hidden from her, and his attitude
betrayed nothing.
“John,” she said, slowly, “you know why he is here.' You know that he
has come to personally offer you this place; to personally receive your
refusal--or consent.”
She ceased to speak; there was a moment of suspense; then Loder turned.
His face was still pale and grave with the gravity of a man who has
but recently been close to death, but beneath the gravity was another
look--the old expression of strength and self-reliance, tempered,
raised, and dignified by a new humility.
Moving forward, he held out his hands.
“My consent or refusal,” he said, very quietly, “lies with--my wife.”