Chapter 13
“My dear girl, you're unfair!” Chilcote's spirits had risen; he spoke rapidly, almost pleasantly. “It isn't I who keep away--it's the stupid affairs of the world that keep me. I'd be with you every hour of the twelve if I had my way.”
She looked up at the bare trees. Her expression was a delightful mixture of amusement, satisfaction, and scepticism. “Then you will dine?” she said at last.
“Certainly.” His reaction to high spirits carried him forward.
“How nice! Shall we fix a day?”
“A day? Yes. Yes--if you like.” He hesitated for an instant, then again the impulse of the previous moment dominated his other feeling. “Yes,” he said, quickly. “Yes. After all, why not fix it now?” With a sudden inclination towards amiability he opened his overcoat, thrust his hand into an inner pocket, and drew out his engagement-book--the same long, narrow book fitted with two pencils that Loder had scanned so interestedly on his first morning at Grosvenor Square. He opened it, turning the pages rapidly. “What day shall it be? Thursday's full--and Friday--and Saturday. What a bore!” He still talked fast.
Lillian leaned across. “What a sweet book!” she said. “But why the blue crosses?” She touched one of the pages with her gloved finger.
Chilcote jerked the book, then laughed with a touch of embarrassment. “Oh, the crosses? Merely to remind me that certain 'appointments must be kept. You know my beastly memory! But what about the day? Shall we fix the day?” His voice was in control, but mentally her trivial question had disturbed and jarred him. “What day shall we say?” he repeated. “Monday in next week?”
Lillian glanced up with a faint exclamation of disappointment. “How horribly faraway!” She spoke with engaging petulance, and, leaning forward afresh, drew the book from Chilcote's hand. “What about to-morrow?” she exclaimed, turning back a page. “Why not to-morrow? I knew I saw a blank space.”
“To-morrow! Oh, I--I--” He stopped.
“Jack!” Her voice dropped. It was true that she desired Chilcote's opinion on her adventure, for Chilcote's opinion on men and manners had a certain bitter shrewdness; but the exercise of her own power added a point to the desire. If the matter had ended with the gain or loss of a tete-a-tete with him, it is probable that, whatever its utility, she would not have pressed it, but the underlying motive was the stronger. Chilcote had been a satellite for years, and it was unpleasant that any satellite should drop away into space.
“Jack!” she said again, in a lower and still more effective tone; and, lifting her muff, she buried her face in her flowers. “I suppose I shall have to dine and go to a music-hall with Leonard--or stay at home by myself,” she murmured, looking out across the trees.
Again Chilcote glanced over the long, tan-strewn ride. They had made the full circuit of the park.
“It's tiresome being by one's self,” she murmured.
For a while he was irresponsive, then slowly his eyes returned to her face. He watched her for a second, and, leaning quickly towards her, he took his book and scribbled something in the vacant space.
She watched him interestedly; her face lighted up, and she laid aside her muff.
“Dear Jack!” she said. “How very sweet of you!”
Then, as he held the book towards her, her face fell. “Dine 33 Cadogan Gardens, 8 o'c. Talk with L.,” she read. “Why, you've forgotten the essential thing!”
He looked up. “The essential thing?”
She smiled. “The blue cross,” she said. “Isn't it worth even a little one?”
The tone was very soft. Chilcote yielded.
“You have the blue pencil,” he said, in sudden response to her mood.
She glanced up in quiet pleasure at her Success, and, with a charming affectation of seriousness, marked the engagement with a big cross. At the same moment the car slackened speed, as the chauffeur waited for further orders.
Lillian shut the engagement-book and handed it back. “Where can I drop you?” she asked. “At the club?”
The question recalled him to a sense of present things. He thrust the book into his pocket and glanced about him.
They had paused by Hyde Park corner. The crowd of horses and carriages had thinned as the hour of lunch drew near, and the wide roadway of the park had an air of added space. The suggested loneliness affected him. The tall trees, still bereft of leaves, and the colossal gateway incomprehensively stirred the sense of mental panic that sometimes seized him in face of vastness of space or of architecture. In one moment, Lillian, the appointment he had just made, the manner of its making--all left him. The world was filled with his own personality, his own immediate inclinations.
“Don't bother about me!” he said, quickly. “I can get out here. You've been very good. It's been a delightful morning.” With a hurried pressure of her fingers he rose and stepped from the car.
Reaching the ground, he paused for a moment and raised his hat; then, without a second glance, he turned and walked rapidly away.
Lillian sat watching him meditatively. She saw him pass through the gateway, saw him hail a hansom, then she remembered the waiting chauffeur.
XXI
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.
XXII
After his interview with Eve, Loder retired to the study and spent the remaining hours of the day and the whole span of the evening in work. At one o'clock, still feeling fresh in mind and body, he dismissed Greening and passed into Chilcote's bedroom. The interview with Eve, though widely different from the one he had anticipated, had left him stimulated and alert. In the hours that followed it there had been an added anxiety to put his mind into harness, an added gratification in finding it answer to the rein.
A pleasant sense of retrospection settled upon him as he slowly undressed; and a pleasant sense of interest touched him as, crossing to the dressing-table, he caught sight of Chilcote's engagement-book--taken with other things from the suit he had changed at dinner-time and carefully laid aside by Renwick.
He picked it up and slowly turned the pages. It always held the suggestion of a lottery--this dipping into another man's engagements and drawing a prize or a blank. It was a sensation that even custom had not dulled.
At first he turned the pages slowly, then by degrees his fingers quickened. Beyond the fact that this present evening was free, he knew nothing of his promised movements. The abruptness of Chilcote's arrival at Clifford's Inn in the afternoon had left no time for superfluous questions. He skimmed the writing with a touch of interested haste, then all at once he paused and smiled.
“Big enough for a tombstone!” he said below his breath as his eyes rested on a large blue cross. Then he smiled again and held the book to the light.
“Dine 33 Cadogan Gardens, 8 o'c. Talk with L,” he read, still speaking softly to himself.
He stood for a moment pondering on the entry, then once more his glance reverted to the cross.
“Evidently meant it to be seen,” he mused; “but why the deuce isn't he more explicit?” As he spoke, a look of comprehension suddenly crossed his face and the puzzled frown between his eyebrows cleared away.
With a feeling of satisfaction he remembered Lakely's frequent and pressing suggestion that he should dine with him at Cadogan Gardens and discuss the political outlook.
Lakely must have written during his absence, and Chilcote, having marked the engagement, felt no further responsibility. The invitation could scarcely have been verbal, as Chilcote, he knew, had lain very low in the five days of his return home.
So he argued, as he stood with the book still open in his hands, the blue cross staring imperatively from the white paper. And from the argument rose thoughts and suggestions that seethed in his mind long after the lights had been switched off, long after the fire had died down and he had been left wrapped in darkness in the great canopied bed.
And so it came about that he took his second false step. Once during the press of the next morning's work it crossed his mind to verify his convictions by a glance at the directory. But for once the strong wish that evolves a thought conquered his caution. His work was absorbing; the need of verification seemed very small. He let the suggestion pass.
At seven o'clock he dressed carefully. His mind was full of Lakely and of the possibilities the night might hold; for more than once before, the weight of the 'St. George's Gazette', with Lakely at its back, had turned the political scales. To be marked by him as a coming man was at any time a favorable portent; to be singled out by him at the present juncture was momentous. A thrill of expectancy, almost of excitement, passed through him as he surveyed his appearance preparatory to leaving the house.
Passing down-stairs, he moved at once to the hall door; but almost as his hand touched it he halted, attracted by a movement on the landing above him. Turning, he saw Eve.
She was standing quite still, looking down upon him as she had looked once before. As their eyes met, she changed her position hastily.
“You are going out?” she asked. And it struck Loder quickly that there was a suggestion, a shadow of disappointment in the tone of her voice. Moved by the impression, he responded with unusual promptness.
“Yes,” he said. “I'm dining out--dining with Lakely.”
She watched him intently while he spoke; then, as the meaning of his words reached her, her whole face brightened.
“With Mr. Lakely?” she said. “Oh, I'm glad--very glad. It is quite--quite another step.” She smiled with a warm, impulsive touch of sympathy.
Loder, looking up at her, felt his senses stir. At sound of her words his secret craving for success quickened to stronger life. The man whose sole incentive lies within may go forward coldly and successfully; but the man who grasps a double inspiration, who, even unconsciously, is impelled by another force, has a stronger impetus for attack, a surer, more vital hewing power. Still watching her, he answered instinctively--
“Yes,” he said, slowly, “a long step.” And, with a smile of farewell, he turned, opened the door, and passed into the road.
The thrill of that one moment was still warm as he reached Cadogan Gardens and mounted the steps of No. 33--so vitally warm that he paused for an instant before pressing the electric bell. Then at last, dominated by anticipation, he turned and raised his hand.
The action was abrupt, and it was only as his fingers pressed the bell that a certain unexpectedness, a certain want of suitability in the aspect of the house, struck him. The door was white, the handle and knocker were of massive silver. The first seemed a disappointing index of Lakely's private taste, the second a ridiculous temptation to needy humanity. He looked again at the number of the house, but it stared back at him convincingly. Then the door opened.
So keen was his sense of unfitness that, still trying to fuse his impression of Lakely with the idea of silver door-fittings, he stepped into the hall without the usual preliminary question. Suddenly realizing the necessity, he turned to the servant; but the man forestalled him:
“Will you come to the white room, sir? And may I take your coat?”
The smooth certainty of the man's manner surprised him. It held another savor of disappointment--seeming as little in keeping with the keen, business-like Lakely as did the house. Still struggling with his impression, he allowed himself to be relieved of his hat and coat and in silence ushered up the shallow staircase.
As the last step was reached it came to him again to mention his host's name; but simultaneously with the suggestion the servant stepped forward with a quick, silent movement and threw open a door.
“Mr. Chilcote!” he announced, in a subdued, discreet voice.
Loder's first impression was of a room that seemed unusually luxurious, soft, and shadowed. Then all impression of inanimate things left him suddenly.
For the fraction of a second he stood in the door-way, while the room seemed emptied of everything, except a figure that rose slowly from a couch before the fire at sound of Chilcote's name; then, with a calmness that to himself seemed incredible, he moved forward into the room.
He might, of course, have beaten a retreat and obviated many things; but life is full of might-have-beens, and retreat never presents itself agreeably to a strong man. His impulse was to face the difficulty, and he acted on the impulse.
Lillian had risen slowly; and as he neared her she held out her hand.
“Jack!” she exclaimed, softly. “How sweet of you to remember!”
The voice and words came to him with great distinctness, and as they came one uncertainty passed forever from his mind--the question as to what relation she and Chilcote held to each other. With the realization came the thought of Eve, and in the midst of his own difficulty his face hardened.
Lillian ignored the coldness. Taking his hand, she smiled. “You're unusually punctual,” she said. “But your hands are cold. Come closer to the fire.”
Loder was not sensible that his hands were cold, but he suffered himself to be drawn forward.
One end of the couch was in firelight, the other in shadow. By a fortunate arrangement of chance Lillian selected the brighter end for herself and offered the other to her guest. With a quick sense of respite he accepted it. At least he could sit secure from detection while he temporized with fate.
For a moment they sat silent, then Lillian stirred. “Won't you smoke?” she asked.
Everything in the room seemed soft and enervating--the subdued glow of the fire, the smell of roses that hung about the air, and, last of all, Lillian's slow, soothing voice. With a sense of oppression he stiffened his shoulders and sat straighter in his place.
“No,” he said, “I don't think I shall smoke.”
She moved nearer to him. “Dear Jack,” she said, pleadingly, “don't say you're in a bad mood. Don't say you want to postpone again.” She looked up at him and laughed a little in mock consternation.
Loder was at a loss.
Another silence followed, while Lillian waited; then she frowned suddenly and rose from the couch. Like many indolent people, she possessed a touch of obstinacy; and now that her triumph over Chilcote was obtained, now that she had vindicated her right to command him, her original purpose came uppermost again. Cold or interested, indifferent or attentive, she intended to make use of him.
She moved to the fire and stood looking down into it.
“Jack,” she began, gently, “a really amazing thing has happened to me. I do so want you to throw some light.”
Loder said nothing.
There was a fresh pause while she softly smoothed the silk embroidery that edged her gown. Then once more she looked up at him.
“Did I ever tell you,” she began, “that I was once in a railway accident on a funny little Italian railway, centuries before I met you?” She laughed softly; and with a pretty air of confidence turned from the fire and resumed her seat.