They were the first to arrive upon the ground — an open space on the borders of Sedgemoor, in the shelter of Polden Hill. But they had not long to wait before Wilding and Trenchard rode up, attended by a groom. Their arrival had an oddly sobering effect upon young Westmacott, for which Mr. Vallancey was thankful. For during their ride he had begun to fear that he had carried too far the business of equipping his principal with artificial valour.
Trenchard came forward to offer Vallancey the courteous suggestion that Mr. Wilding’s servant should charge himself with the care of the horses of Mr. Westmacott’s party, if this would be a convenience to them. Vallancey thanked him and accepted the offer, and thus the groom — instructed by Trenchard — led the five horses some distance from the spot.
It now became a matter of making preparation, and leaving Richard to divest himself of such garments as he might deem cumbrous, Vallancey went forward to consult with Trenchard upon the choice of ground. At that same moment Mr. Wilding lounged forward, flicking the grass with his whip in an absent manner.
“Mr. Vallancey,” he began, when Trenchard turned to interrupt him.
“You can leave it safely to me, Tony,” he growled. “But there is something I wish to say, Nick,” answered Mr. Wilding, his manner mild. “By your leave, then.” And he turned again to Valiancey. “Will you be so good as to call Mr. Westmacott hither?”
Vallancey stared. “For what purpose, sir?” he asked.
“For my purpose,” answered Mr. Wilding sweetly. “It is no longer my wish to engage with Mr. Westmacott.
“Anthony!” cried Trenchard, and in his amazement forgot to swear.
“I propose,” added Mr. Wilding, “to relieve Mr. Westmacott of the necessity of fighting.”
Vallancey in his heart thought this might be pleasant news for his principal. Still, he did not quite see how the end was to be attained, and said so.
“You shall be enlightened if you will do as I request,” Wilding insisted, and Vallancey, with a lift of the brows, a snort, and a shrug, turned away to comply.
“Do you mean,” quoth Trenchard, bursting with indignation, “that you will let live a man who has struck you?”
Wilding took his friend affectionately by the arm. “It is a whim of mine,” said he. “Do you think, Nick, that it is more than I can afford to indulge?”
“I say not so,” was the ready answer; “but...”
“I thought you’d not,” said Mr. Wilding, interrupting. “And if any does — why, I shall be glad to prove it upon him that he lies.” He laughed, and Trenchard, vexed though he was, was forced to laugh with him. Then Nick set himself to urge the thing that last night had plagued his mind: that this Richard might prove a danger to the Cause; that in the Duke’s interest, if not to safeguard his own person from some vindictive betrayal, Wilding would be better advised in imposing a reliable silence upon him.
“But why vindictive?” Mr. Wilding remonstrated. “Rather must he have cause for gratitude.”
Mr. Trenchard laughed short and contemptuously. “There is,” said he, “no rancour more bitter than that of the mean man who has offended you and whom you have spared. I beg you’ll ponder it.” He lowered his voice as he ended his admonition, for Vallancey and Westmacott were coming up, followed by Sir Rowland Blake.
Richard, although his courage had been sinking lower and lower in a measure as he had grown more and more sober with the approach of the moment for engaging, came forward now with a firm step and an arrogant mien; for Vallancey had given him more than a hint of what was toward. His heart had leapt, not only at the deliverance that was promised him, but out of satisfaction at the reflection of how accurately last night he had gauged what Mr. Wilding would endure. It had dismayed him then, as we have seen, that this man who, he thought, must stomach any affront from him out of consideration for his sister, should have ended by calling him to account. He concluded now that upon reflection Wilding had seen his error, and was prepared to make amends that he might extricate himself from an impossible situation, and Richard blamed himself for having overlooked this inevitable solution and given way to idle panic.
Vallancey and Blake watching him, and the sudden metamorphosis that was wrought in him, despised him heartily, and yet were glad — for the sake of their association with him — that things were as they were.
“Mr. Westmacott,” said Wilding quietly, his eyes steadily set upon Richard’s own arrogant gaze, his lips smiling a little, “I am here not to fight, but to apologize.”
Richard’s sneer was audible to all. Oh, he was gathering courage fast now that there no longer was the need for it. It urged him to lengths of daring possible only to a fool.
“If you can take a blow, Mr. Wilding,” said he offensively, “that is your own affair.”
And his friends gasped at his temerity and trembled for him, not knowing what grounds he had for counting himself unassailable.
“Just so,” said Mr. Wilding, as meek and humble as a nun, and Trenchard, who had expected something very different from him, swore aloud and with some circumstance of oaths. “The fact is,” continued Mr. Wilding, “that what I did last night, I did in the heat of wine, and I am sorry for it. I recognize that this quarrel is of my provoking; that it was unwarrantable in me to introduce the name of Mistress Westmacott, no matter how respectfully; and that in doing so I gave Mr. Westmacott ample grounds for offence. For that I beg his pardon, and I venture to hope that this matter need go no further.”
Vallancey and Blake were speechless in astonishment; Trenchard livid with fury. Westmacott moved a step or two forward, a swagger unmistakable in his gait, his nether-lip thrust out in a sneer.
“Why,” said he, his voice mighty disdainful, “if Mr. Wilding apologizes, the matter hardly can go further.” He conveyed such a suggestion of regret at this that Trenchard bounded forward, stung to speech.
“But if Mr. Westmacott’s disappointment threatens to overwhelm him,” he snapped, very tartly, “I am his humble servant, and he may call upon me to see that he’s not robbed of the exercise he came to take.”
Mr. Wilding set a restraining hand upon Trenchard’s arm.
Westmacott turned to him, the sneer, however, gone from his face.
“I have no quarrel with you, sir,” said he, with an uneasy assumption of dignity.
“It’s a want that may be soon supplied,” answered Trenchard briskly, and, as he afterwards confessed, had not Wilding checked him at that moment, he had thrown his hat in Richard’s face.
It was Vallancey who saved the situation, cursing in his heart the bearing of his principal.
“Mr. Wilding,” said he, “this is very handsome in you. You are of the happy few who may tender such an apology without reflection upon your courage.”
Mr. Wilding made him a leg very elegantly. “You are vastly kind, sir,” said he.
“You have given Mr. Westmacott the fullest satisfaction, and it is with an increased respect for you — if that were possible — that I acknowledge it on my friend’s behalf.”
“You are, sir, a very mirror of the elegancies,” said Mr. Wilding, and Vallancey wondered was he being laughed at. Whether he was or not, he conceived that he had done the only seemly thing. He had made handsome acknowledgment of a handsome apology, stung to it by the currishness of Richard.
And there the matter ended, despite Trenchard’s burning eagerness to carry it himself to a different consummation. Wilding prevailed upon him, and withdrew him from the field. But as they rode back to Zoyland Chase the old rake was bitter in his inveighings against Wilding’s folly and weakness.
“I pray Heaven,” he kept repeating, “that it may not come to cost you dear.”
“Have done,” said Mr. Wilding, a trifle out of patience. “Could I wed the sister having slain the brother?”
And Trenchard, understanding at last, accounted himself a numskull that he had not understood before. But he none the less deemed it a pity Richard had been spared.
; CHAPTER VI. THE CHAMPION
As vainglorious was Richard Westmacott’s retreat from the field of unstricken battle as his advance upon it had been inglorious. He spoke with confidence now of the narrow escape that Wilding had had at his hands, of the things he would have done to Wilding had not that gentleman grown wise in time. Sir Rowland, who had seen little of Richard’s earlier stricken condition, was in a measure imposed upon by his blustering tone and manner; not so Vallancey, who remembered the steps he had been forced to take to bolster up the young man’s courage sufficiently to admit of his being brought to the encounter. Richard so disgusted him that he felt if he did not quit his company soon, he would be quarrelling with him himself. So, congratulating him, in a caustic manner that Richard did not relish, upon the happy termination of the affair, Vallancey took his leave of him and Blake at the cross-roads, pleading business with Lord Gervase, and left them to proceed without him to Bridgwater.
Blake, whose suspicions of some secret matter to which Vallancey and Richard were wedded, had been earlier excited by Westmacott’s indiscretions, was full of sly questions now touching the business which might be taking Vallancey to Scoresby. But Richard was too full of the subject of the fear he had instilled into Wilding to afford his companion much satisfaction on any other score. Thus they came to Lupton House, and as Richard swaggered down the lawn into the presence of the ladies — Ruth and her aunt were occupying the stone bench, Diana the circular seat about the great oak in the centre of the lawn — he was a very different person from the pale, limp creature they had beheld there some few hours earlier. Loud and offensive was he now in self-laudation, and so indifferent to all else that he left unobserved the little smile, half wistful, half scornful, that visited his sister’s lips when he sneeringly told how Mr. Wilding had chosen that better part of valour which discretion is alleged to be.
It needed Diana, who, blinded by no sisterly affection, saw him exactly as he was, and despised him accordingly, to enlighten him. It may also be that in doing so at once she had ends of her own to serve; for Sir Rowland was still of the company.
“Mr. Wilding afraid?” she cried, her voice so charged with derision that it inclined to shrillness. “La! Richard, Mr. Wilding was never afraid of any man.”
“Faith!” said Rowland, although his acquaintance with Mr. Wilding was slight and recent. “It is what I should think. He does not look like a man familiar with fear.”
Richard struck something of an attitude, his fair face flushed, his pale eyes glittering. “He took a blow,” said he, and sneered.
“There may have been reasons,” Diana suggested darkly, and Sir Rowland’s eyes narrowed at the hint.
Again he recalled the words Richard had let fall that afternoon. Wilding and he were fellow workers in some secret business, and Richard had said that the encounter was treason to that same business, whatever it might be. And of what it might be Sir Rowland had grounds upon which to found at least a guess. Had perhaps Wilding acted upon some similar feelings in avoiding the duel? He wondered; and when Richard dismissed Diana’s challenge with a fatuous laugh, it was Blake who took it up.
“You speak, ma’am,” said he, “as if you knew that there were reasons, and knew, too, what those reasons might be.”
Diana looked at Ruth, as if for guidance before replying. But Ruth sat calm and seemingly impassive, looking straight before her. She was, indeed, indifferent how much Diana said, for in any case the matter could not remain a secret long. Lady Horton, silent too and listening, looked a question at her daughter.
And so, after a pause: “I know both,” said Diana, her eyes straying again to Ruth; and a subtler man than Blake would have read that glance and understood that this same reason which he sought so diligently sat there before him.
Richard, indeed, catching that sly look of his cousin’s, checked his assurance, and stood frowning, cogitating. Then, quite suddenly, his voice harsh:
“What do you mean, Diana?” he inquired.
Diana shrugged and turned her shoulder to him. “You had best ask Ruth,” said she, which was an answer more or less plain to both the men.
They stood at gaze, Richard looking a thought foolish. Blake, frowning, his heavy lip caught in his strong, white teeth.
Ruth turned to her brother with an almost piteous attempt at a smile. She sought to spare him pain by excluding from her manner all suggestion that things were other than she desired.
“I am betrothed to Mr. Wilding,” said she.
Sir Rowland made a sudden forward movement, drew a deep breath, and as suddenly stood still. Richard looked at his sister as she were mad and raving. Then he laughed, between unbelief and derision.
“It is a jest,” said he, but his accents lacked conviction.
“It is the truth,” Ruth assured him quietly.
“The truth?” His brow darkened ominously — stupendously for one so fair. “The truth, you baggage...?” He began and stopped in very fury.
She saw that she must tell him all.
“I promised to wed Mr. Wilding this day se’night so that he saved your life and honour,” she told him calmly, and added, “It was a bargain that we drove.” Richard continued to stare at her. The thing she told him was too big to be swallowed at a mouthful; he was absorbing it by slow degrees.
“So now,” said Diana, “you know the sacrifice your sister has made to save you, and when you speak of the apology Mr. Wilding tendered you, perhaps you’ll speak of it in a tone less loud.”
But the sarcasm was no longer needed. Already poor Richard was very humble, his make-believe spirit all snuffed out. He observed at last how pale and set was his sister’s face, and he realized something of the sacrifice she had made. Never in all his life was Richard so near to lapsing from the love of himself; never so near to forgetting his own interests, and preferring those of Ruth. Lady Horton sat silent, her heart fluttering with dismay and perplexity. Heaven had not equipped her with a spirit capable of dealing with a situation such as this. Blake stood in make believe stolidity dissembling his infinite chagrin and the stormy emotions warring within him, for some signs of which Diana watched his countenance in vain.
“You shall not do it!” cried Richard suddenly. He came forward and laid his hand on his sister’s shoulder. His voice was almost gentle. “Ruth, you shall not do this for me. You must not.”
“By Heaven, no!” snapped Blake before she could reply. “You are right, Richard. Mistress Westmacott must not be the scapegoat. She shall not play the part of Iphigenia.”
But Ruth smiled wistfully as she answered him with a question, “Where is the help for it?”
Richard knew where the help for it lay, and for once — for just a moment — he contemplated danger and even death with equanimity.
“I can take up this quarrel again,” he announced. “I can compel Mr. Wilding to meet me.”
Ruth’s eyes, looking up at him, kindled with pride and admiration. It warmed her heart to hear him speak thus, to have this assurance that he was anything but the coward she had been so disloyal as to deem him; no doubt she had been right in saying that it was his health was the cause of the palsy he had displayed that morning; he was a little wild, she knew; inclined to sit over-late at the bottle; with advancing manhood, she had no doubt, he would overcome this boyish failing. Meanwhile it was this foolish habit — nothing more — that undermined the inherent firmness of his nature. And it comforted her generous soul to have this proof that he was full worthy of the sacrifice she was making for him. Diana watched him in some surprise, and never doubted but that his offer was impulsive, and that he would regret it when his ardour had had time to cool.
“It were idle,” said Ruth at last — not that she quite believed it, but that it was all-important to her that Richard should not be imperilled. “Mr. Wilding will prefer the bargain he has made.”
“No doubt,” growled Blake, “but he shall be forced to unmake it.” He advanced and bowed low before her. “Madam,” said he, “
will you grant me leave to champion your cause and remove this troublesome Mr. Wilding from your path?”
Diana’s eyes narrowed; her cheeks paled, partly from fear for Blake, partly from vexation at the promptness of an offer that afforded a fresh and so eloquent proof of the trend of his affections.
Ruth smiled at him in a very friendly manner, but gently shook her head.
“I thank you, sir,” said she. “But it were more than I could permit. This has become a family affair.”
There was in her tone something which, despite its friendliness, gave Sir Rowland his dismissal. He was not at best a man of keen sensibilities; yet even so, he could not mistake the request to withdraw that was implicit in her tone and manner. He took his leave, registering, however, in his heart a vow that he would have his way with Wilding. Thus must he — through her gratitude — assuredly come to have his way with Ruth.
Diana rose and turned to her mother. “Come,” she said, “we’ll speed Sir Rowland. Ruth and Richard would perhaps prefer to remain alone.”
Ruth thanked her with her eyes. Richard, standing beside his sister with bent head and moody gaze, did not appear to have heard. Thus he remained until he and his half-sister were alone together, then he flung himself wearily into the seat beside her, and took her hand.
“Ruth,” he faltered, “Ruth!”
She stroked his hand, her honest, intelligent eyes bent upon him in a look of pity — and to indulge this pity for him, she forgot how much herself she needed pity.
“Take it not so to heart,” she urged him, her voice low and crooning — as that of a mother to her babe. “Take it not so to heart, Richard. I should have married some day, and, after all, it may well be that Mr. Wilding will make me as good a husband as another. I do believe,” she added, her only intent to comfort Richard; “that he loves me; and if he loves me, surely he will prove kind.”
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 165
