Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  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.

  CHAPTER III. DIANA SCHEMES

  Notwithstanding the brave face Ruth Westmacott had kept during his presence, when he departed Sir Rowland left behind him a distress amounting almost to anguish in her mind. Yet though she might suffer, there was no weakness in Ruth’s nature. She knew how to endure. Diana, bearing Richard not a tenth of the affection his sister consecrated to him, was alarmed for him. Besides, her own interests urged the averting of this encounter. And so she held in accents almost tearful that something must be done to save him.

  This, too, appeared to be Richard’s own view, when presently — within a few minutes of Blake’s departure — he came to join them. They watched his approach in silence, and both noted — though with different eyes and different feelings — the pallor of his fair face, the dark lines under his colourless eyes. His condition was abject, and his manners, never of the best — for there was much of the spoiled child about Richard — were clearly suffering from it.

  He stood before his sister and his cousin, moving his eyes shiftily from one to the other, rubbing his hands nervously together.

  “Your precious friend Sir Rowland has been here,” said he, and it was not clear from his manner which of them he addressed. “Not a doubt but he will have brought you the news.” He seemed to sneer.

  Ruth advanced towards him, her face grave, her sweet eyes full of pitying concern. She placed a hand upon his sleeve. “My poor Richard...” she began, but he shook off her kindly touch, laughing angrily — a mere cackle of irritability.

  “Odso!” he interrupted her. “It is a thought late for this mock kindliness!”

  Diana, in the background, arched her brows, then with a shrug turned aside and seated herself on the stone seat by which they had been standing. Ruth shrank back as if her brother had struck her.

  “Richard!” she cried, and searched his livid face with her eyes. “Richard!”

  He read a question in the interjection, and he answered it. “Had you known any real care, any true concern for me, you had not given cause for this affair,” he chid her peevishly.

  “What are you saying?” she cried, and it occurred to her at last that Richard was afraid. He was a coward! She felt as she would faint.

  “I am saying,” said he, hunching his shoulders, and shivering as he spoke, yet, his glance unable to meet hers, “that it is your fault that I am like to get my throat cut before s
unset.”

  “My fault?” she murmured. The slope of lawn seemed to wave and swim about her. “My fault?”

  “The fault of your wanton ways,” he accused her harshly. “You have so played fast and loose with this fellow Wilding that he makes free of your name in my very presence, and puts upon me the need to get myself killed by him to save the family honour.”

  He would have said more in this strain, but something in her glance gave him pause. There fell a silence. From the distance came the melodious pealing of church bells. High overhead a lark was pouring out its song; in the lane at the orchard end rang the beat of trotting hoofs. It was Diana who spoke presently. Just indignation stirred her, and, when stirred, she knew no pity, set no limits to her speech.

  “I think, indeed,” said she, her voice crisp and merciless, “that the family honour will best be saved if Mr. Wilding kills you. It is in danger while you live. You are a coward, Richard.”

  “Diana!” he thundered — he could be mighty brave with women — whilst Ruth clutched her arm to restrain her.

  But she continued, undeterred: “You are a coward — a pitiful coward,” she told him. “Consult your mirror. It will tell you what a palsied thing you are. That you should dare so speak to Ruth...”

  “Don’t!” Ruth begged her, turning.

  “Aye,” growled Richard, “she had best be silent.”

  Diana rose, to battle, her cheeks crimson. “It asks a braver man than you to compel my obedience,” she told him. “La!” she fumed, “I’ll swear that had Mr. Wilding overheard what you have said to your sister, you would have little to fear from his sword. A cane would be the weapon he’d use on you.”