Anthony Wilding

by Rafael Sabatini

  “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 today, 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 today 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 3

  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 pale 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 tou
ch, 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 I am like to get my throat cut before sunset.”

  “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.”

  Richard’s pale eyes flamed malevolently; a violent rage possessed him and flooded out his fear, for nothing can so goad a man as an offensive truth. Ruth approached him again; again she took him by the arm, seeking to soothe his over-troubled spirit; but again he shook her off. And then to save the situation came a servant from the house. So lost in anger was all Richard’s sense of decency that the mere supervention of the man would not have been enough to have silenced him could he have found adequate words in which to answer Mistress Horton. But even as he racked his mind, the footman’s voice broke the silence, and the words the fellow uttered did what his presence alone might not have sufficed to do.

  “Mr Vallancey is asking for you, sir,” he announced.

  Richard started. Vallancey! He had come at last, and his coming was connected with the impending duel. The thought was paralysing to young Westmacott. The flush of anger faded from his face; its leaden hue returned and he shivered as with cold. At last he mastered himself sufficiently to ask: “Where is he, Jasper?”

  “In the library, sir,” replied the servant. “Shall I bring him hither?”

  “Yes – no,” he answered. “I will come to him.” He turned his back upon the ladies, paused a moment, still irresolute. Then, as by an effort, he followed the servant across the lawn and vanished through the ivied porch.

  As he went Diana flew to her cousin. Her shallow nature was touched with transient pity. “My poor Ruth…” she murmured soothingly, and set her arm about the other’s waist. There was a gleam of tears in the eyes Ruth turned upon her. Together they came to the granite seat and sank to it side by side, fronting the placid river. There Ruth, her elbows on her knees, cradled her chin in her hands, and with a sigh of misery stared straight before her.

  “It was untrue!” she said at last. “What Richard said of me was untrue.”

  “Why, yes,” Diana snapped, contemptuous. “The only truth is that Richard is afraid.”

  Ruth shivered. “Ah, no,” she pleaded – though she knew how true was the impeachment. “Don’t say it, Diana.”

  “It matters little that I say it,” snorted Diana impatiently. “It is a truth proclaimed by the first glance at him.”

  “He is in poor health, perhaps,” said Ruth, seeking miserably to excuse him.

  “Aye,” said Diana. “He’s suffering from an ague – the result of a lack of courage. That he should so have spoken to you! Give me patience, Heaven!”

  Ruth crimsoned again at the memory of his words; a wave of indignation swept through her gentle soul, but was gone at once, leaving an ineffable sadness in its room. What was to be done? She turned to Diana for counsel. But Diana was still whipping up her scorn.

  “If he goes out to meet Mr Wilding he’ll shame himself and every man and woman that bears the name of Westmacott,” said she, and struck a new fear with that into the heart of Ruth.

  “He must not go,” she answered passionately. “He must not meet him!”

  Diana flashed her a sidelong glance. “And if he doesn’t, will things be mended?” she inquired. “Will it save his honour to have Mr Wilding come and cane him?”

  “He’d not do that?” said Ruth.

  “Not if you asked him – no,” was Diana’s sharp retort, and she caught her breath on the last word of it, for just then the devil dropped the seed of a suggestion into the fertile soil of her love-sick soul.

  “Diana!” Ruth exclaimed in reproof, turning to confront her cousin. But Diana’s mind started upon its scheming journey was now travelling fast. Out of that devil’s seed there sprang with amazing rapidity a tree-like growth, throwing out branches, putting forth leaves, bearing already – in her fancy – bloom and fruit.

  “Why not?” quoth she after a breathing space, and her voice was gentle, her tone innocent beyond compare. “Why should you not ask him?” Ruth frowned, perplexed and thoughtful, and now Diana turned to her with the lively eye of one into whose mind has leapt a sudden inspiration. “Ruth!” she exclaimed. “Why, indeed, should you not ask him to forgo this duel?”

  “How…how could I?” faltered Ruth.

  “He’d not deny you; you know he’d not.”

  “I do not know it,” answered Ruth. “But if I did, how could I ask it?”

  “Were I Richard’s sister, and had I his life and honour at heart as you have, I’d not ask how. If Richard goes to that encounter he loses both, remember – unless between this and then he undergoes some change. Were I in your place, I’d go straight to Wilding.”

  “To him?” mused Ruth, sitting up. “How could I go to him?”

  “Go to him, yes,” Diana insisted. “Go to him at once – while there is yet time.”

  Ruth rose and moved away a step or two towards the water, deep in thought. Diana watched her furtively and slyly, the rapid rise and fall of her maiden breast betraying the agitation that filled her as she waited – like a gamester – for the turn of the card that would show her whether she had won or lost. For she saw clearly how Ruth might be so compromised that there was something more than a chance that Diana would no longer have cause to account her cousin a barrier between herself and Blake.

  “I could not go alone,” said Ruth, and her tone was that of one still battling with a notion that is repugnant.

  “Why, if that is all,” said Diana, “then I’ll go with you.”

  “I can’t! I can’t! Consider the humiliat
ion.”

  “Consider Richard rather,” the fair temptress made answer eagerly. “Be sure that Mr Wilding will save you all humiliation. He’ll not deny you. At a word from you, I know what answer he will make. He will refuse to push the matter forward – acknowledge himself in the wrong, do whatever you may ask him. He can do it. None will question his courage. It has been proved too often.” She rose and came to Ruth. She set her arm about her waist again, and poured shrewd persuasion over her cousin’s indecision. “Tonight you’ll thank me for this thought,” she assured her. “Why do you pause? Are you so selfish as to think more of the little humiliation that may await you than of Richard’s life and honour?”

  “No, no,” Ruth protested feebly.

  “What, then? Is Richard to go out and slay his honour by a show of fear before he is slain, himself, by the man he has insulted?”

  “I’ll go,” said Ruth. Now that the resolve was taken, she was brisk, impatient. “Come, Diana. Let Jerry saddle for us. We’ll ride to Zoyland Chase at once.”

  They went without a word to Richard, who was still closeted with Vallancey, and riding forth they crossed the river and took the road that, skirting Sedgemoor runs south to Weston Zoyland. They rode with little said until they came to the point where the road branches on the left, throwing out an arm across the moor towards Chedzoy, a mile or so short of Zoyland Chase. Here Diana reined in with a sharp gasp of pain. Ruth checked, and cried to know what ailed her.

  “It is the sun, I think,” muttered Diana, her hand to her brow. “I am sick and giddy.” And she slipped a thought heavily to the ground. In an instant Ruth had dismounted and was beside her. Diana was pale, which lent colour to her complaint, for Ruth was not to know that the pallor sprang from her agitation in wondering whether the ruse she attempted would succeed or not.

  A short stone’s-throw from where they had halted stood a cottage back from the road in a little plot of ground, the property of a kindly old woman known to both. There Diana expressed the wish to rest awhile, and thither they took their way, Ruth leading both horses and supporting her faltering cousin. The dame was all solicitude. Diana was led into her parlour, and what could be done was done. Her corsage was loosened, water drawn from the well and brought her to drink and bathe her brow.