Lord Kilgobbin Part 79

The creditors--and he had some--would not like it! The dreary process of dunning a man across half the globe, the hopelessness of appeals that took two months to come to hand, and the inefficacy of threats that were wafted over miles of ocean! And certainly he smiled as he thought of these, and rather maliciously bethought him of the truculent importunity that menaced him with some form of publicity in the more insolent appeal to some Minister at home. 'Our tailor will moderate his language, our jeweller will appreciate the merits of polite letter-writing,' thought he. 'A few parallels of lat.i.tude become a great school-master.'

But there were greater advantages even than these. This banishment--for it was nothing else--could not by any possibility be persisted in, and if Lady Maude should consent to accompany him, would be very short-lived.

'The women will take it up,' said he, 'and with that charming clans.h.i.+p that distinguishes them, will lead the Foreign Secretary a life of misery till he gives us something better.--"Maude says the thermometer has never been lower than 132, and that there is no shade. The nights have no breeze, and are rather hotter than the days. She objects seriously to be waited on by people in feathers, and very few of them, and she remonstrates against alligators in the kitchen-garden, and wild cats coming after the canaries in the drawing-room."

'I hear the catalogue of misfortunes, which begins with nothing to eat, plus the terror of being eaten. I recognise the lament over lost civilisation and a wasted life, and I see Downing Street besieged with ladies in deputations, declaring that they care nothing for party or politics, but a great deal for the life of a dear young creature who is to be sacrificed to appease some people belonging to the existing Ministry. I think I know how beautifully illogical they will be, but how necessarily successful; and now for Maude herself.'

Of Lady Maude Bickerstaffe Walpole had seen next to nothing since his return; his own ill-health had confined him to his room, and her inquiries after him had been cold and formal; and though he wrote a tender little note and asked for books, slyly hinting what measure of bliss a five minutes' visit would confer on him, the books he begged for were sent, but not a line of answer accompanied them. On the whole, he did not dislike this little show of resentment. What he really dreaded was indifference.

So long as a woman is piqued with you, something can always be done; it is only when she becomes careless and unmindful of what you do, or say, or look, or think, that the game looks hopeless. Therefore it was that he regarded this demonstration of anger as rather favourable than otherwise.

'Atlee has told her of the Greek! Atlee has stirred up her jealousy of the t.i.tian Girl. Atlee has drawn a long indictment against me, and the fellow has done me good service in giving me something to plead to. Let me have a charge to meet, and I have no misgivings. What really unmans me is the distrust that will not even utter an allegation, and the indifference that does not want disproof.'

He learned that her ladys.h.i.+p was in the garden, and he hastened down to meet her. In his own small way Walpole was a clever tactician; and he counted much on the ardour with which he should open his case, and the amount of impetuosity that would give her very little time for reflection.

'I shall at once a.s.sume that her fate is irrevocably knitted to my own, and I shall act as though the tie was indissoluble. After all, if she puts me to the proof, I have her letters--cold and guarded enough, it is true. No fervour, no gush of any kind, but calm dissertations on a future that must come, and a certain dignified acceptance of her own part in it. Not the kind of letters that a Q.C. could read with much rapture before a crowded court, and ask the a.s.sembled grocers, "What happiness has life to offer to the man robbed of those precious pledges of affection--how was he to face the world, stripped of every attribute that cherished hope and fed ambition?"'

He was walking slowly towards her when he first saw her, and he had some seconds to prepare himself ere they met.

'I came down after you, Maude,' said he, in a voice ingeniously modulated between the tone of old intimacy and a slight suspicion of emotion. 'I came down to tell you my news'--he waited, and then added--'my fate!'

Still she was silent, the changed word exciting no more interest than its predecessor.

'Feeling as I do,' he went on, 'and how we stand towards each other, I cannot but know that my destiny has nothing good or evil in it, except as it contributes to your happiness.' He stole a glance at her, but there was nothing in that cold, calm face that could guide him. With a bold effort, however, he went on: 'My own fortune in life has but one test--is my existence to be shared with you or not? With _your_ hand in mine, Maude,'--and he grasped the marble-cold fingers as he spoke--'poverty, exile, hards.h.i.+ps, and the world's neglect, have no terrors for me. With your love, every ambition of my heart is gratified. Without it--'

[Ill.u.s.tration: 'I should like to have back my letters']

'Well, without it--what?' said she, with a faint smile.

'You would not torture me by such a doubt? Would you rack my soul by a misery I have not words to speak of?'

'I thought you were going to say what it might be, when I stopped you.'

'Oh, drop this cold and bantering tone, dearest Maude. Remember the question is now of my very life itself. If you cannot be affectionate, at least be reasonable!'

'I shall try,' said she calmly.

Stung to the quick by a composure which he could not imitate, he was able, however, to repress every show of anger, and with a manner cold and measured as her own, he went on: 'My lord advises that I should go back to diplomacy, and has asked the Ministers to give me Guatemala. It is nothing very splendid. It is far away in a remote part of the world; not over-well paid, but at least I shall be Charge-d'Affaires, and by three years--four at most, of this banishment--I shall have a claim for something better.

'I hope you may, I'm sure,' said she, as he seemed to expect something like a remark.

'That is not enough, Maude, if the hope be not a wish--and a wish that includes self-interest.'

'I am so dull, Cecil: tell me what you mean.'

'Simply this, then: does your heart tell you that you could share this fortune, and brave these hards.h.i.+ps; in one word, will you say what will make me regard this fate as the happiest of my existence? will you give me this dear hand as my own--my own?' and he pressed his lips upon it rapturously as he spoke.

She made no effort to release her hand; nor for a second or two did she say one word. At last, in a very measured tone, she said, 'I should like to have back my letters.'

'Your letters? Do you mean, Maude, that--that you would break with me?'

'I mean certainly that I should not go to this horrid place--'

'Then I shall refuse it,' broke he in impetuously.

'Not that only, Cecil,' said she, for the first time faltering; 'but except being very good friends, I do not desire that there should be more between us.'

'No engagement?'

'No, no engagement. I do not believe there ever was an actual promise, at least on my part. Other people had no right to promise for either of us--and--and, in fact, the present is a good opportunity to end it.'

'To end it,' echoed he, in intense bitterness; 'to end it?'

'And I should like to have my letters,' said she calmly, while she took some freshly plucked flowers from a basket on her arm, and appeared to seek for something at the bottom of the basket.

'I thought you would come down here, Cecil,' said she, 'when you had spoken to my uncle. Indeed, I was sure you would, and so I brought these with me.'

And she drew forth a somewhat thick bundle of notes and letters tied with a narrow ribbon. 'These are yours,' said she, handing them.

Far more piqued by her cold self-possession than really wounded in feeling, he took the packet without a word; at last he said, 'This is your own wish--your own, unprompted by others?'

She stared almost insolently at him for answer.

'I mean, Maude--oh, forgive me if I utter that dear name once more--I mean there has been no influence used to make you treat me thus?'

'You have known me to very little purpose all these years, Cecil Walpole, to ask me such a question.'

'I am not sure of that. I know too well what misrepresentation and calumny can do anywhere; and I have been involved in certain difficulties which, if not explained away, might be made accusations--grave accusations.'

'I make none--I listen to none.'

'I have become an object of complete indifference, then? You feel no interest in me either way. If I dared, Maude. I should like to ask the date of this change--when it began?'

'I don't well know what you mean. There was not, so far as I am aware, anything between us, except a certain esteem and respect, of which convenience was to make something more. Now convenience has broken faith with us, but we are not the less very good friends--excellent friends if you like.'

'Excellent friends! I could swear to the friends.h.i.+p!' said he, with a malicious energy.

'So at least I mean to be,' said she calmly.

'I hope it is not I shall fail in the compact. And now, will my quality of friend ent.i.tle me to ask one question, Maude?'

'I am not sure till I hear it.'

'I might have hoped a better opinion of my discretion; at all events, I will risk my question. What I would ask is, how far Joseph Atlee is mixed up with your judgment of me? Will you tell me this?'

'I will only tell you, sir, that you are over-vain of that discretion you believe you possess.'

'Then I am right,' cried he, almost insolently. 'I _have_ hit the blot.'

A glance, a mere glance of haughty disdain, was the only reply she made.