From Scoresby Hall, near Weston Zoyland, young Westmacott rode home that
Saturday night to his sister's house in Bridgwater, a sobered man and an
anguished. He had committed a folly which was like to cost him his life
to-morrow. Other follies had he committed in his twenty-five years--for
he was not quite the babe that Blake had represented him, although he
certainly looked nothing like his age. But to-night he had contrived to
set the crown to all. He had good cause to blame himself and to curse
the miscalculation that had emboldened him to launch himself upon
a course of insult against this Wilding, whom he hated with all the
currish and resentful hatred of the worthless for the man of parts.
But there was more than hate in the affront that he had offered;
there was calculation--to an even greater extent than we have seen. It
happened that through his own fault young Richard was all but penniless.
The pious, nonconformist soul of Sir Geoffrey Lupton--the wealthy uncle
from whom he had had great expectations--had been so stirred to anger by
Richard's vicious and besotted ways that he had left every guinea that
was his, every perch of land, and every brick of edifice to Richard's
half-sister Ruth. At present things were not so bad for the worthless
boy. Ruth worshipped him. He was a sacred charge to her from their dead
father, who, knowing the stoutness of her soul and the feebleness of
Richard's, had in dying imposed on her the care and guidance of her
graceless brother. But Ruth, in all things strong, was weak with Richard
out of her very fondness for him. To what she had he might help himself,
and thus it was that things were not so bad with him at present. But
when Richard's calculating mind came to give thought to the future he
found that this occasioned him some care. Rich ladies, even when they
do not happen to be equipped in addition with Ruth's winsome beauty and
endearing nature, are not wont to go unmarried. It would have pleased
Richard best to have had her remain a spinster. But he well knew that
this was a matter in which she might have a voice of her own, and it
behoved him betimes to take wise measures where possible husbands were
concerned.
The first that came in a suitor's obvious panoply was Anthony Wilding,
of Zoyland Chase, and Richard watched his advent with foreboding.
Wilding's was a personality to dazzle any woman, despite--perhaps even
because of--the reputation for wildness that clung to him. That he was
known as Wild Wilding to the countryside is true; but it were unfair--as
Richard knew--to attach to this too much importance; for the adoption
of so obvious an alliteration the rude country minds needed but a slight
encouragement. From the first it looked as if Ruth might favour him, and
Richard's fears assumed more definite shape. If Wilding married her--and
he was a bold, masterful fellow who usually accomplished what he aimed
at--her fortune and estate must cease to be a pleasant pasture land for
bovine Richard. The boy thought at first of making terms with Wilding;
the idea was old; it had come to him when first he had counted the
chances of his sister's marrying. But he found himself hesitating to
lay his proposal before Mr. Wilding. And whilst he hesitated Mr.
Wilding made obvious headway. Still Richard dared not do it. There was
a something in Wilding's eye that cried him danger. Thus, in the end,
since he could not attempt a compromise with this fine fellow, the only
course remaining was that of direct antagonism--that is to say, direct
as Richard understood directness. Slander was the weapon he used in
that secret duel; the countryside was well stocked with stories of Mr.
Wilding's many indiscretions. I do not wish to suggest that these were
unfounded. Still, the countryside, cajoled by its primitive sense of
humour into that alliteration I have mentioned, found that having given
this dog its bad name, it was under the obligation of keeping up his
reputation. So it exaggerated. Richard, exaggerating those exaggerations
in his turn, had some details, as interesting and unsavoury as they were
in the main untrue, to lay before his sister.
Now established love, it is well known, thrives wondrously on slander.
The robust growth of a maid's feelings for her accepted suitor is but
further strengthened by malign representations of his character. She
seizes with joy the chance of affording proof of her great loyalty, and
defies the world and its evil to convince her that the man to whom she
has given her trust is not most worthy of it. Not so, however, with the
first timid bud of incipient interest. Slander nips it like a frost; in
deadliness it is second only to ridicule.
Ruth Westmacott lent an ear to her brother's stories, incredulous only
until she remembered vague hints she had caught from this person and
from that, whose meaning was now made clear by what Richard told her,
which, incidentally, they served to corroborate. Corroboration, too, did
the tale of infamy receive from the friendship that prevailed between
Mr. Wilding and Nick Trenchard, the old ne'er-dowell, who in his
time--as everybody knew--had come so low, despite his gentle birth, as
to have been one of a company of strolling players. Had Mr. Wilding
been other than she now learnt he was, he would surely not cherish an
attachment for a person so utterly unworthy. Clearly, they were birds of
a plumage.
And so, her maiden purity outraged at the thought that she had been in
danger of lending a willing ear to the wooing of such a man, she
had crushed this love which she blushed to think was on the point of
throwing out roots to fasten on her soul, and was sedulous thereafter in
manifesting the aversion which she accounted it her duty to foster for
Mr. Wilding.
Richard had watched and smiled in secret, taking pride in the cunning
way he had wrought this change--that cunning which so often is given
to the stupid by way of compensation for the intelligence that has been
withheld them.
And now what time discountenanced, Wilding fumed and fretted all in
vain, Sir Rowland Blake, fresh from London and in full flight from his
creditors, flashed like a comet into the Bridgwater heavens. He dazzled
the eyes and might have had for the asking the heart and hand of Diana
Horton--Ruth's cousin. Her heart, indeed, he had without the asking, for
Diana fell straightway in love with him and showed it, just as he showed
that he was not without response to her affection. There were some
tender passages between them; but Blake, for all his fine exterior, was
a beggar, and Diana far from rich, and so he rode his feelings with
a hard grip upon the reins. And then, in an evil hour for poor Diana,
young Westmacott had taken him to Lupton House, and Sir Rowland had his
first glimpse of Ruth, his first knowledge of her fortune. He went down
before Ruth's eyes like a man of heart; he went down more lowly still
before her possessions like a man of greed; and poor Diana might console
herself with whom she could.
Her brother watched him, appraised him, and thought that in this broken
gamester he had a man after his own heart; a man who would be ready
enough for such a bargain as Richard had in mind; ready enough to
sell what rags might be left him of his honour so that he came by the
wherewithal to mend his broken fortunes.
The twain made terms. They haggled like any pair of traders out of
Jewry, but in the end it was settled--by a bond duly engrossed and
sealed--that on the day that Sir Rowland married Ruth he should make
over to her brother certain values that amounted to perhaps a quarter of
her possessions. There was no cause to think that Ruth would be greatly
opposed to this--not that that consideration would have weighed with
Richard.
But now that all essentials were so satisfactorily determined a vexation
was offered Westmacott by the circumstance that his sister seemed nowise
taken with Sir Rowland. She suffered him because he was her brother's
friend; on that account she even honoured him with some measure of her
own friendship; but to no greater intimacy did her manner promise to
admit him. And meanwhile, Mr. Wilding persisted in the face of all
rebuffs. Under his smiling mask he hid the smart of the wounds she dealt
him, until it almost seemed to him that from loving her he had come to
hate her.
It had been well for Richard had he left things as they were and waited.
Whether Blake prospered or not, leastways it was clear that Wilding
would not prosper, and that, for the season, was all that need have
mattered to young Richard.
But in his cups that night he had thought in some dim way to precipitate
matters by affronting Mr. Wilding, secure, as I have shown, in his
belief that Wilding would perish sooner than raise a finger against
Ruth's brother. And his drunken astuteness, it seemed, had been to
his mind as a piece of bottle glass to the sight, distorting the image
viewed through it.
With some such bitter reflection rode he home to his sleepless couch.
Some part of those dark hours he spent in bitter reviling of Wilding, of
himself, and even of his sister, whom he blamed for this awful situation
into which he had tumbled; at other times he wept from self-pity and
sheer fright.
Once, indeed, he imagined that he saw light, that he saw a way out
of the peril that hemmed him in. His mind turned for a moment in the
direction that Trenchard had feared it might. He bethought him of his
association with the Monmouth Cause--into which he had been beguiled by
the sordid hope of gain--and of Wilding's important share in that same
business. He was even moved to rise and ride that very night for Exeter
to betray to Albemarle the Cause itself, so that he might have Wilding
laid by the heels. But if Trenchard had been right in having little
faith in Richard's loyalty, he had, it seems, in fearing treachery
made the mistake of giving Richard credit for more courage than was his
endowment. For when, sitting up in bed, fired by his inspiration, young
Westmacott came to consider the questions the Lord-Lieutenant of Devon
would be likely to ask him, he reflected that the answers he must return
would so incriminate himself that he would be risking his own neck in
the betrayal. He flung himself down again with a curse and a groan, and
thought no more of the salvation that might lie for him that way.
The morning of that last day of May found him pale and limp and all
a-tremble. He rose betimes and dressed, but stirred not from his chamber
till in the garden under his window he heard his sister's voice, and
that of Diana Horton, joined anon by a man's deeper tones, which he
recognized with a start as Blake's. What did the baronet here so
early? Assuredly it must concern the impending duel. Richard knew no
mawkishness on the score of eavesdropping. He stole to his window and
lent an ear, but the voices were receding, and to his vexation he caught
nothing of what was said. He wondered how soon Vallancey would come, and
for what hour the encounter had been appointed. Vallancey had remained
behind at Scoresby Hall last night to make the necessary arrangements
with Trenchard, who was to act for Mr. Wilding.
Now it chanced that Trenchard and Wilding had business--business of
Monmouth's--to transact in Taunton that morning; business which might
not be delayed. There were odd rumours afloat in the West; persistent
rumours which had come fast upon the heels of the news of Argyle's
landing in Scotland; rumours which maintained that Monmouth himself was
coming over from Holland. These tales Wilding and his associates had
ignored. The Duke, they knew, was to spend the summer in retreat in
Sweden, with (it was alleged) the Lady Henrietta Wentworth to bear him
company, and in the mean time his trusted agents were to pave the way
for his coming in the following spring. Of late the lack of direct news
from the Duke had been a source of mystification to his friends in the
West, and now, suddenly, the information went abroad--it was something
more than rumour this time--that a letter of the greatest importance
had been intercepted. From whom that letter proceeded or to whom it was
addressed, could not yet be discovered. But it seemed clear that it
was connected with the Monmouth Cause, and it behoved Mr. Wilding to
discover what he could. With this intent he rode with Trenchard that
Sunday morning to Taunton, hoping that at the Red Lion Inn--that
meeting-place of dissenters--he might cull reliable information.
It was in consequence of this that the meeting with Richard Westmacott
was not to take place until the evening, and therefore Vallancey came
not to Lupton House as early as Richard thought he should expect him.
Blake, however--more no doubt out of a selfish fear of losing a valued
ally in the winning of Ruth's hand than out of any excessive concern for
Richard himself--had risen early and hastened to Lupton House, in the
hope, which he recognized as all but forlorn, of yet being able to avert
the disaster he foresaw for Richard.
Peering over the orchard wall as he rode by, he caught a glimpse,
through an opening between the trees, of Ruth herself and Diana on the
lawn beyond. There was a wicket gate that stood unlatched, and availing
himself of this Sir Rowland tethered his horse in the lane and threading
his way briskly through the orchard came suddenly upon the girls.
Their laughter reached him as he advanced, and told him they could know
nothing yet of Richard's danger.
On his abrupt and unexpected apparition, Diana paled and Ruth flushed
slightly, whereupon Sir Rowland might have bethought him, had he been
book-learned, of the axiom, “Amour qui rougit, fleurette; amour qui
plit, drame du coeur.”
He doffed his hat and bowed, his fair ringlets tumbling forward till
they hid his face, which was exceeding grave.
Ruth gave him good morning pleasantly. “You London folk are earlier
risers than we are led to think,” she added.
“'Twill be the change of air makes Sir Rowland matutinal,” said Diana,
making a gallant recovery from her agitation.
“I vow,” said he, “that I had grown matutinal earlier had I known what
here awaited me.”
“Awaited you?” quoth Diana, and tossed her head archly disdainful. “La!
Sir Rowland, your modesty will be the death of you.” Archness became
this lady of the sunny hair, tip-tilted nose, and complexion that
outvied the apple-blossoms. She was shorter by a half-head than her
darker cousin, and made up in sprightliness what she lacked of Ruth's
gentle dignity. The pair were foils, each setting off the graces of the
other.
“I protest I am foolish,” answered Blake, a shade discomfited. “But I
want not for excuse. I have it in the matter that brings me here.”
So solemn was his air, so sober his voice, that both girls felt a
premonition of the untoward message that he bore. It was Ruth who asked
him to explain himself.
“Will you walk, ladies?” said Blake, and waved the hand that still held
his hat riverwards, adown the sloping lawn. They moved away together,
Sir Rowland pacing between his love of yesterday and his love of to-day,
pressed with questions from both. He shaded his eyes to look at the
river, dazzling in the morning sunlight that came over Polden Hill, and,
standing thus, he unburdened himself at last.
“My news concerns Richard and--Mr. Wilding.” They looked at him.
Miss Westmacott's fine level brows were knit. He paused to ask, as if
suddenly observing his absence, “Is Richard not yet risen?”
“Not yet,” said Ruth, and waited for him to proceed.
“It does credit to his courage that he should sleep late on such a day,”
said Blake, and was pleased with the adroitness wherewith he broke the
news. “He quarrelled last night with Anthony Wilding.”
Ruth's hand went to her bosom; fear stared at Blake from out her eyes,
blue as the heavens overhead; a grey shade overcast the usual warm
pallor of her face.
“With Mr. Wilding?” she cried. “That man!” And though she said no more
her eyes implored him to go on, and tell her what more there might be.
He did so, and he spared not Wilding. The task, indeed, was one to which
he applied himself with a certain zest; whatever might be the outcome
of the affair, there was no denying that he was by way of reaping profit
from it by the final overthrow of an acknowledged rival. And when he
told her how Richard had flung his wine in Wilding's face when Wilding
stood to toast her, a faint flush crept to her cheeks.
“Richard did well,” said she. “I am proud of him.”
The words pleased Sir Rowland vastly; but he reckoned without Diana.
Miss Horton's mind was illumined by her knowledge of herself. In the
light of that she saw precisely what capital this tale-bearer sought to
make. The occasion might not be without its opportunities for her; and
to begin with, it was no part of her intention that Wilding should be
thus maligned and finally driven from the lists of rivalry with Blake.
Upon Wilding, indeed, and his notorious masterfulness did she found what
hopes she still entertained of winning back Sir Rowland.
“Surely,” said she, “you are a little hard on Mr. Wilding. You speak as
if he were the first gallant that ever toasted lady's eyes.”
“I am no lady of his, Diana,” Ruth reminded her, with a faint show of
heat.
Diana shrugged her shoulders. “You may not love him, but you can't
ordain that he shall not love you. You are very harsh, I think. To me it
rather seems that Richard acted like a boor.”
“But, mistress,” cried Sir Rowland, half out of countenance, and
stifling his vexation, “in these matters it all depends upon the
manner.”
“Why, yes,” she agreed; “and whatever Mr. Wilding's manner, if I know
him at all, it would be nothing but respectful to the last degree.”
“My own conception of respect,” said he, “is not to bandy a lady's name
about a company of revellers.”
“Bethink you, though, you said just now, it all depended on the manner,”
she rejoined. Sir Rowland shrugged and turned half from her to her
listening cousin. When all is said, poor Diana appears--despite her
cunning--to have been short-sighted. Aiming at a defined advantage
in the game she played, she either ignored or held too lightly the
concomitant disadvantage of vexing Blake.
“It were perhaps best to tell us the exact words he used, Sir Rowland,”
she suggested, “that for ourselves we may judge how far he lacked
respect.”
“What signify the words!” cried Blake, now almost out of temper.
“I don't recall them. It is the air with which he pledged Mistress
Westmacott.”
“Ah yes--the manner,” quoth Diana irritatingly. “We'll let that be.
Richard threw his wine in Mr. Wilding's face? What followed then? What
said Mr. Wilding?”
Sir Rowland remembered what Mr. Wilding had said, and bethought him
that it were impolitic in him to repeat it. At the same time, not having
looked for this cross-questioning, he was all unprepared with any likely
answer. He hesitated, until Ruth echoed Diana's question.
“Tell us, Sir Rowland,” she begged him, “what Mr. Wilding said.”
Being forced to say something, and being by nature slow-witted and
sluggish of invention, Sir Rowland was compelled, to his unspeakable
chagrin, to fall back upon the truth.
“Is not that proof?” cried Diana in triumph. “Mr. Wilding was reluctant
to quarrel with Richard. He was even ready to swallow such an affront
as that, thinking it might be offered him under a misconception of his
meaning. He plainly professed the respect that filled him for Mistress
Westmacott, and yet, and yet, Sir Rowland, you tell us that he lacked
respect!”
“Madam,” cried Blake, turning crimson, “that matters nothing. It was not
the place or time to introduce your cousin's name.
“You think, Sir Rowland,” put in Ruth, her air grave, judicial almost,
“that Richard behaved well?”
“As I would like to behave myself, as I would have a son of mine behave
on the like occasion,” Blake protested. “But we waste words,” he cried.
“I did not come to defend Richard, nor just to bear you this untoward
news. I came to consult with you, in the hope that we might find some
way to avert this peril from your brother.”
“What way is possible?” asked Ruth, and sighed. “I would not... I would
not have Richard a coward.”
“Would you prefer him dead?” asked Blake, sadly grave.
“Sooner than craven--yes,” Ruth answered him, very white.
“There is no question of that,” was Blake's rejoinder. “The question
is that Wilding said last night that he would kill the boy, and what
Wilding says he does. Out of the affection that I bear Richard is born
my anxiety to save him despite himself. It is in this that I come to
seek your aid or offer mine. Allied we might accomplish what singly
neither of us could.”
He had at once the reward of his cunning speech. Ruth held out her
hands. “You are a good friend, Sir Rowland,” she said, with a pale
smile; and pale too was the smile with which Diana watched them. No more
than Ruth did she suspect the sincerity of Blake's protestations.
“I am proud you should account me that,” said the baronet, taking Ruth's
hands and holding them a moment; “and I would that I could prove myself
your friend in this to some good purpose. Believe me, if Wilding would
consent that I might take your brother's place, I would gladly do so.”
It was a safe boast, knowing as he did that Wilding would consent to
no such thing; but it earned him a glance of greater kindliness from
Ruth--who began to think that hitherto perhaps she had done him some
injustice--and a look of greater admiration from Diana, who saw in him
her beau-ideal of the gallant lover.
“I would not have you endanger yourself so,” said Ruth.
“It might,” said Blake, his blue eyes very fierce, “be no great danger,
after all.” And then dismissing that part of the subject as if, like
a brave man, the notion of being thought boastful were unpleasant, he
passed on to the discussion of ways and means by which the coming duel
might be averted. But when they came to grips with facts, it seemed that
Sir Rowland had as little idea of what might be done as had the ladies.
True, he began by making the obvious suggestion that Richard should
tender Wilding a full apology. That, indeed, was the only door of
escape, and Blake shrewdly suspected that what the boy had been
unwilling to do last night--partly through wine, and partly through
the fear of looking fearful in the eyes of Lord Gervase Scoresby's
guests--he might be willing enough to do to-day, sober and upon
reflection. For the rest Blake was as far from suspecting Mr. Wilding's
peculiar frame of mind as had Richard been last night. This his words
showed.
“I am satisfied,” said he, “that if Richard were to go to-day to Wilding
and express his regret for a thing done in the heat of wine, Wilding
would be forced to accept it as satisfaction, and none would think that
it did other than reflect credit upon Richard.”
“Are you very sure of that?” asked Ruth, her tone dubious, her glance
hopefully anxious.
“What else is to be thought?”
“But,” put in Diana shrewdly, “it were an admission of Richard's that he
had done wrong.”
“No less,” he agreed, and Ruth caught her breath in fresh dismay.
“And yet you have said that he did as you would have a son of yours do,”
Diana reminded him.
“And I maintain it,” answered Blake; his wits worked slowly ever. It was
for Ruth to reveal the flaw to him.
“Do you not understand, then,” she asked him sadly, “that such an
admission on Richard's part would amount to a lie--a lie uttered to save
himself from an encounter, the worst form of lie, a lie of cowardice?
Surely, Sir Rowland, your kindly anxiety for his life outruns your
anxiety for his honour.”
Diana, having accomplished her task, hung her head in silence,
pondering.
Sir Rowland was routed utterly. He glanced from one to the other of his
companions, and grew afraid that he--the town gallant--might come to
look foolish in the eyes of these country ladies. He protested again
his love for Richard, and increased Ruth's terror by his mention of
Wilding's swordsmanship; but when all was said, he saw that he had best
retreat ere he spoiled the good effect which he hoped his solicitude had
created. And so he spoke of seeking counsel with Lord Gervase Scoresby,
and took his leave, promising to return by noon.