The Rafael Sabatini Megapack. Rafael Sabatini
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