A DEFEAT
Cecil Walpole’s Italian experiences had supplied him with an Italian
proverb which says, ‘_Tutto il mal non vien per nuocere_,’ or, in other
words, that no evil comes unmixed with good; and there is a marvellous
amount of wisdom in the adage.
That there is a deep philosophy, too, in showing how carefully we should
sift misfortune to the dregs, and ascertain what of benefit we might rescue
from the dross, is not to be denied; and the more we reflect on it, the
more should we see that the germ of all real consolation is intimately
bound up in this reservation.
No sooner, then, did Walpole, in novelist phrase, ‘realise the fact’ that
he was to go to Guatemala, than he set very practically to inquire what
advantages, if any, could be squeezed out of this unpromising incident.
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 latitude 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 clanship 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
Titian 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 ladyship 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 assume 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 assembled 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, hardships, and the world’s neglect, have no terrors for me. With
your love, every ambition of my heart is gratified. Without it--’
[Illustration: ‘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 Chargé-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 hardships; 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 friendship!’ 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 entitle 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.
‘I am shocked, Maude,’ said he at last. ‘I am ashamed that we should spend
in this way perhaps the very last few minutes we shall ever pass together.
Heart-broken as I am, I should desire to carry away one memory at least of
her whose love was the loadstar of my existence.’
‘I want my letters, Cecil,’ said she coldly.
‘So that you came down here with mine, prepared for this rupture, Maude? It
was all prearranged in your mind.’
‘More discretion--more discretion, or good taste--which is it?’
‘I ask pardon, most humbly I ask it; your rebuke was quite just. I was
presuming upon a past which has no relation to the present. I shall not
offend any more. And now, what was it you said?’
‘I want my letters.’
‘They are here,’ said he, drawing a thick envelope fully crammed with
letters from his pocket and placing it in her hand. ‘Scarcely as carefully
or as nicely kept as mine, for they have been read over too many times;
and with what rapture, Maude. How pressed to my heart and to my lips, how
treasured! Shall I tell you?’
There was that of exaggerated passion--almost rant--in these last words,
that certainly did not impress them with reality; and either Lady Maude
was right in doubting their sincerity, or cruelly unjust, for she smiled
faintly as she heard them.
‘No, don’t tell me,’ said she faintly. ‘I am already so much flattered by
courteous anticipation of my wishes that I ask for nothing more.’
He bowed his head lowly; but his smile was one of triumph, as he thought
how, this time at least, he had wounded her.
‘There are some trinkets, Cecil,’ said she coldly, ‘which I have made into
a packet, and you will find them on your dressing-table. And--it may save
you some discomfort if I say that you need not give yourself trouble to
recover the little ring with an opal I once gave you, for I have it now.’
‘May I dare?’
‘You may not dare. Good-bye.’
And she gave her hand; he bent over it for a moment, scarcely touched it
with his lips, and turned away.