“Then this dreamer has not only blinded you to the fate of Christ Church, but has led you to the brink of self-immolation?”
“He is not a dreamer, Philip. He has not blinded me, nor has he sought to blind me. He has not led me, nor has he sought to lead me. I have offered myself voluntarily for service in his cause. I believe in him, and in his ideals, and in his method of applying Christianity to the conditions that surround us. I have enlisted for the war under his command, and I have told him so.”
Looking on her as she stood there, erect, clear-eyed and self-confident, Westgate could have no doubt of her entire belief in the rector, and of her complete absorption in his cause. His heart was stirred with keen regret and sharp foreboding, for he could see only sorrow and bitter disappointment for her, long before the end of this chimerical crusade could be reached. And yet he was powerless to hold her back. He knew that in her present condition of mind neither argument nor entreaty would be of any avail. She must be permitted to go her way unchecked until the day of final disillusionment. He prayed that that day might speedily come, with only a modicum of disaster.
“We’ll not quarrel about it now, dear,” he said. “It will be a good many days before I shall see you again, and we must part, to-night, as lovers.”
Holding his hands she looked up into his face with moist eyes.
“If I could only have you with me in the fight,” she murmured; “you would make such a splendid comrade.”
He did not reply at once. The similarity of her expression with that used by the rector earlier in the evening struck in upon him ominously.
“You will have me,” he said at last, “to rescue you, and bind up your wounds when the battle goes against you.”
“And are you not afraid that you will be giving aid and comfort to the enemy?”
“Oh, no! I will simply be taking the part of the Good Samaritan.”