Chapter 21

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.”

End of Project Gutenberg's The Masquerader, by Katherine Cecil Thurston